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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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Hiotographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


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► 

23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14S80 

(716)872-4503 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  IVIicroreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiq 


ues 


4  i 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


Tl 
to 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checiced  below. 


D 


D 
D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagde 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurde  et/ou  pellicul6e 

Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  init  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


D 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  liure  serrde  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int6rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
11  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajout6es 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  filmtes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplAmentaires; 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6X6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exer  iplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  methods  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqute  ci-dessous. 


I      I   Coloured  pages/ 


D 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 


□    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurtes  et/ou  pelliculdes 

0    Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  dteolortes,  tacheties  ou  piqu6es 

□    Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d^tachtes 

Showthroughy 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  in^gale  de  I'impression 

includes  supplementary  materit 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppl^mentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seuie  Edition  disponible 


Tl 

P 
o^ 
fi 


O 

b^ 
th 
si 
ol 
fii 
si 

Of 


ryi  Showthrough/ 

I      I  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I      I  includes  supplementary  material/ 

[~~|  Only  edition  available/ 


Tl 
sf 
Tl 
w 

M 
di 
er 
b« 

"J 
re 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partieilement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  M  filmtes  A  nouveau  de  fapon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-dessous 

10X                             14X                             18X                             22X 

1 

26X 

30X 

y 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

lire 

details 
jes  du 
modifier 
|er  une 
filmage 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


6es 


L'exemplaire  filmA  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
g6n4rosit6  de: 

Bibliothdque  nationale  du  Canada 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin.  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet6  de  rexemplairo  filmd,  et  en 
conformit6  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimde  sont  film6s  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film6s  en  commen^ant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  -^^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 


'e 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc..  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmte  A  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  film6  A  partir 
de  i'angle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mithode. 


r  errata 
d  to 

It 

le  pelure, 

;on  d 


n 


t    *» 

2 

3 

32X 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

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*  # 


ELINOR    PRESTON: 


«»» 


Sctnts  at  %rM  ani  Jbroab. 


.    MRS.  J.  SADLIEE, 

«tt<|8t  of 
BLAKM  AMD  VLAHIOAXB,*  **  OOMnDBUlB  0HIXVTAIH8,**  **  HBIf  XJOHn,* 


NEW  YORK: 
D.  &  J.   SADLIER  &  CO.,   81   BARCLAY   STREET, 


OF  NOTBS  pAMM  *  Wt.  nUUKHB  XATSB 


:4 


^•v. 


Altered  aeeor<Bng  t:  Act  ojT  OongreM,  in  the  jear  1881, 

By  D.  A  J.  Sadlibr  ft  Co., 

la  the  Clerk*!  Office  of  the  DtotrtOb  ^ourt  of  the  United  SUtes  for  tk* 
Southern  Distnot  of  New  York. 


« 


I 


f  0  ms  ixm)i$  in  €,nuH< 


To  tho  friends  of  other  dsya,  hr  away  In  that  N^orthem  dime  where 
hearts  are  warm  and  skies  are  oold,  where  so  many  of  my  years  were  spent, 
that  it  stands  in  memory  side  by  side  with  the  land  of  my  nativity. 

To  the  many  all  over  Canada  whom  I  saw,  soma  hnt  seldom,  some  not  at 
til,  yet  whoso  sympathy  was  with  me  as  mine  was  with  them. 

To  the  few  whose  society  made  life  sweet— with  whom  I  had  so  mnoh  in 
common— whose  friendship  I  so  highly  prize,  whose  kladneas  I  cannot  forget 
Over  some  the  grave  has  already  dosed,  I  shall  see  them  no  more  this  side 
^  eternity;  bat  their  memory  is  nnforgotten. 

To  mjjbrst  flriends  and  my  Uui  friends,  beyond  the  St  Lawrenoe,  I  dedi* 
eate  Eldtob  Puraron.  I  know  they,^||ff|l  pr&t*  the  book  tot  my  sake^  cs  I  d« 
the  nsQie  of  Canada  for  thelnk      .  T 

Haw  YoBX,^i>ra,18a. 


•     « 


ELINOR    PRESTON; 


OB, 


$ttuB  St  $0mt  ui  ^\ixni. 


••• 


CHAPTER  I. 

(iTcn  u  Elinor  Preston*!  manoscript  fell  Into  the  handi  of  the  anonymooi 
gentleman  who  wrote  the  following  Introduction,  so  did  his  manuscript  fall 
Into  mine,  hy  an  equally  fortunate  chance ;  and,  such  being  the  caae,  I 
iMTe  great  pleasure  in  giving  it  to  the  public  Just  as  I  found  it.] 


,^^f^i^8s!)C- 


UCH  has  been  siud  and  written  of  the 
pleasure  and  the  profit  to  be  derived  from  a 
stroll  through  a  country  churchyard,  always 
providing,  I  should  suppose,  that  the  per- 
son so  strolling  be  capable  of  enjoying 
such  pleasure,  for  assuredly  to  the  average 
run  of  mortals  it  is  anything  but  agreeable 
to  come  in  contact  with  the  dead.  ''The 
dead  of  other  years ! ''  solemn  and  mast 
beautiful  words,  little  regarded  by  the  chiU 

dren  of  the  world,  the  living  occupants  of  this  our  planet. 

Much,  as  I  said,  has  been  written  on  the  solemn  lessons 


10 


XLINOR   PRESTON. 


Inculcated  by  the  grassy  heaps  and  neglected  monuments 
of  the*  graveyard,  and  this  applies  to  all,  for  in  all  does 
the  progress  of  man^s  return  to  dust  go  on  from  day  to 
day  in  fulfilment  of  the  divine  behest.      But  it  is  only 
in  Catholic  graveyards  that  real  consolation  is  to  bu 
found,  for  there  we  feel  that  the  dead  are  not  wholly  sep- 
arated from  those  left    behind.     There   the  gulf  of 
death   is  bridged  across  by  the  hand  of  faith.     We 
read  the  pious  inscriptions :  "  In  your  charity  pray  for 
the  soul  of ,"  and  though  the  name  on  the  head- 
stone or  head-board  is  strange  to  us,  yet  we  do  pray  for 
that  soul  with  a  heart  full  of  tender,  Christian  charity. 
Over  the  next  grave  we  read :  "  Erected  to  the  memory 
of and by  their  sorrowing  and  affection- 
ate children.     They  were,  indeed.   Christian  parents. 
May  they  rest  in  peace !  "     Does  not  the  "  Amen " 
which  one's  lips  utter,  ascend  to  heaven  on  the  wings  of 
faith  and  charity  ?     Over  many  of  the  graves  is  placed 
only  a  simple  cross  of  wood  or  stone,  sublimely  attest- 
ing the  faith  and  hope  of  the  Christian  who  sleeps  be- 
neath its  sacred  shadow.     What  monument  ever  raised 
by  wealth  and  pride  could  equal  that  In  grandeur !    "  In 
this  sign  we  conquer ! "  whispers  the  interior  voice — 
the  voice  of  faith. 

I  was  forcibly  struck  with  these  truths,  while  ram- 
bling one  summer  afternoon  through  the  neatly-kept  en- 
closure of  a  parish  cemetery  in  Lower  Canada,  within 
sight  of  the  blue  waters  of  the  St.  Lawrence.  The 
names  on  the  simple  monuments  were  nearly  all  French ; 
they  were  Breton  and  Norman  names,  transmitted  froii: 


ELINOR   PRB8T0V. 


11 


one  generation  to  another  by  the  brave  and  hardy  col- 
onists, who  also  gave  intact  to  their  children  *'  the  faith, 
pure  and  undefilcd,'*  which,  in  later  times,  animated 
the  bold  peasants  of  that  same  Bretagne  and  that  same 
Normandy  to  fight  as  men  hardly  ever  fought  in  de- 
fence of  their  religion. 

The  declining  sun  shed  his  slanting  beams  on  the 
grass-grown  graves,  flinging  the  shadow  of  cross  and 
headstone  in  broken  lines  over  each  **  narrow  house  of 
death,"  and  I  was  thinking  of  the  light  of  immortality 
with  which  those  Christian  sleepers  had  been  long  since 
vested  as  with  a  garment,  when  my  eye  chanced  to  fall 
on  a  small  headstone,  apparently  of  white  marble,  stand- 
ing in  a  corner  close  by  the  little  parish  church,  in  the 
shade  of  an  ancient  elm.  Attracted  from  a  distance  by 
the  picturesque  appearance  of  this  little  monument,  I 
approached,  and,  to  my  surprise,  found  on  it  no  inscrip- 
tion— ^nothing  but  a  cross,  and  a  miniature  figure  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  with  her  hands  outstretched  as  we  see 
her  on  the  medals  of  the  Immaculate  Conception.  I 
looked  at  the  grave :  it  was  that  of  an  adult,  judging  by 
its  length ;  and  involuntarily  I  stopped,  and  began  to 
think  why  it  was  that  there  was  no  name  on  the  stone. 
Many  efforts  did  I  make  to  solve  the  enigma,  but  hav- 
ing no  clue  to  guide  me,  I  was  of  course  lost  in  the 
labyrinth  of  my  own  thoughts, — and  roused  myself,  after 
half  an  hour^s  musing,  to  discover  that  th#  nameless 
grave,  its  sheltering  elm,  and  myself,  were  alike  envel- 
oped in  the  deep  shade  of  the  sacred  building,  behind 
which  the  sun  was  now  setting. 


13 


XLIKOR   PRESTON. 


f 


•'  Finding  that  I  had  lingered  in  the  cemetery  much 
longer  than  I  had  intended,  I  entered  the  church  to  say 
a  prayer  for  the  faithful  departed,  especially  those 
amongst  whose  mortal  remains  I  had  been  so  long 
musing,  and  then  hurried  to  "mine  inn"  to  procure 
some  of  those  creature-comforts,  for  which,  after  all, 
intellectual  or  sentimental  pleasures  are  but  a  sorry 
substitute.  After  supper  J  walked  out  on  the  little 
gallery,  or  verandah,  which  ran  along  the  front  of  the 
house,  and  was  well  pleased  to  find  mine  host  there  be- 
fore me,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  enjoying  his  pipe  and  the 
delicious  coolness  of  the  summer  eve, — his  dark.  Indian- 
like features  shaded  by  a  straw  hat  of  the  coarsest  tex- 
ture, plaited  by  the  nut-brown  hands  of  wife  or  daughter. 
I  was  fortunately  able  to  converse  with  Monsieur 
Jean  Baptiste  in  his  own  liquid  tongue,  on  which  account 
he  had  the  greatest  possible  pleasure  in  answering  any 
questions  I  might  choose  to  put. 

"  You  have  quite  a  pretty  village  here,"  said  I,  cast- 
ing my  eyes  over  the  picturesque  group  of  quaint,  old- 
fashioned,  gaudily-painted  houses,  shaded  here  and  there 
with  the  luxuriant  foliage  of  the  maple  and  the  tamarac. 
"  The  place  is  well  enough,"  said  mine  host,  with  the 
careless  air  of  one  who  was  himself  perfectly  satisfied 
with  his  location,  and  cared  little  whether  others  ad- 
mired it  or  not. 

"  And  ^wr  church  and  presbytery,"  I  said,  pointing 
to  the  buildings  in  question,  where  they  stood  side  by 
side,  their  white  walls  reflecting  the  rays  of  the  sum- 
mer moon,  as  she  rose  from  behind  the  dark  rim  of  the 


%•  V 


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ELINOR   PRESTON. 


13 


-,  v 


adjacent  forest.      "  How  graceful  does  the  pretty  cot- 
,  tage  nestle  close  by  the  church  ! — surely,  if  peace  is  to 
be  had  on  earth,  it  must  be  in  this  secluded  spot !  " 

"That  is  just  what  Ma'amselle  nsed  to  say  when 
she  came  first,"  observed  the  landlord. 

"  Mademoiselle !  who  is  she  1 " 

"Why,  Ma'amselle  TAnglaise,  to  be  sure,"  he  re- 
turned, as  though  I  should  have  known  all  about  her  as 
well  as  himself.      •  n , 

"  L' Anglaise ! "  I  repeated.  "  So  you  have  a  young 
English  lady  here  1 " 
f  "  No,  sir,  she  is  not  here  now — she  is  gone  to  a  bet 
ter  place,"  and  he  reverently  touched  his  straw  hat,  and 
glanced  upward  to  the  dark  blue  sky  spangled  with  its 
myriad  orbs. 

"Oh!  she  is  dead, then!"  Jean  Baptiste  nodded  in 
in  the  affirmative,  and  I  involuntarily  thought  of  the 
nameless  grave  under  the  churchyard  elm. 

"  Is  your  demoiselle  Anglaise  buried  below  in  the 
churchyard,  close  by  the  wall  under  a  large  tree  ?  " 

Mine  host  looked  surprised  !     "  Monsieur  has  seen 
her  grave,  then  ?  "     I  nodded  in  my  turn.     "  Yes,"  he 
said,  "  that  is  where  she  lies — may  she  rest  in  peace !  " 
I  *"  What  was  her  name  1 "  I  asked. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  tell  you,  sir,"  said  the  urbane 
^^landlord,  as  he  shook  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  and  leis- 
urely put  it  in  his  pocket ;  "  we  always  call  her  Ma'am- 
selle,  because  she  was  a  lady,  and  the  only  one  in  the 
village.  I  heard  Monsieur  le  Cure  sometimes  mention 
her  name,  for  he  speaks  English  as  well  as  can  be  ^  but 


2 


\  ! 


14 


ELIKOR   PBBSTON. 


poor  people  like  us,  that  don't  speak  English,  can't  well 
remember  English  names.    As  I  was  saying,  we  always  ^! 
call   her  Ma'amselle,  and  she  didn't  want  any  other 
name  given  her.     You  see  there  is  none  on  her  head- 
stone.   Well,  that  was  her  own  wish." 

"  Strange,"  I  said  musingly ;  "  but  had  she  no  fHends  ?  " 
"  Not  a  soul — at  least  here.  I  don't  know  if  she  ever 
had  any.  I  suppose  she  had  in  her  own  country,  but 
she  came  here  all  alone,  for  all  the  world  as  though  she^ 
dropped  down  from  heaven  to  teach  our  little  ones. 
Where  she  came  from,  or  who  she  was,  we  never  knew, 
because,  as  Monsieur  knows,  we  couldn't  be  putting  ques- 
tions to  a  lady  like  her.  She  might  have  told  Monsieur  , 
le  Cure  something,  but  if  she  did  he  kept  it  all  to  him* 
self"  t 

"So  she  taught  school  here?'*  *f 

*'  Yee,  sir,  she  taught  both  French  and  English.  Mon- 
sieur le  Cure  said  she  was  very  well  instructed,  and  she 
looked  like  it.  She  was  pale,  and  had  a  spiritual  sort 
of  look  about  her  that  nobody  ever  had,  I  think,  but 
herself — at  least  there  was  nobody  in  these  parts  a  bit 
like  her,  not  even  in  Quebec,  or  Montreal  itself, — ^and  I 
have  been  in  both,  sir,  many  a  time.  I  never  saw  a  face 
like  hers — so  sad,  and  yet  so  sweet.  Every  body  loved 
her,  sir,"  and  the  worthy  habitan  cleared  his  throat  vo- 
ciferously ;  "  there's  my  wife  Adele,  and  I  do  believe  * 
she  could  have  worked  day  and  night  for  her,  and  for  th« 
matter  of  that,  she  often  did  too,  after  she  got  sick,  for 
Adele  has  an  excellent  heart,  sir,  and  the  good  Grod 
gives  her  the  best  of  health." 


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XUNOR   PRXSTOK. 


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**  I  rejoice  to  hear  it,"  I  said,  with  becoming  gravity, 
'*  but,  pray,  where  did  Mademoiselle  reside  1 " 

"  Oh  I  in  the  school-house  yonder,"  pointing  to  a  long, 
low,  steep-roofed  house,  with  even  more  than  the  usual 
number  of  Canadian  windows,  opening  on  hinges  almost 
to  the  floor.  "  She  would  have  been  heartily  welcome 
to  live  with  us  here,  but  she  thought  she'd  rather  be  to 
herself — so  she  told  my  woman;  and  she  took  old 
Mother  Longpre  and  her  daughter  Laure,  to  keep  her 
company  and  mind  the  house,  for  it  seems  she  did  not 
know  any  thing.  Pjoor  Ma'amselle!"  and  again  the 
good  man  cleared  his  throat,  and  wiped  away  a  starting 
tear ! — "  Pm  sure  we'll  all  pray  for  her  the  longest  day 
we  have  to  live !  "  ^ 

^^  I  should  like  to  ask  the  priest,"  I  said,  "  whether  he 
knew  any  thing  of  her  history." 

"  Perhaps  Monsieur  is  from  the  same  country  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  think  so,  friend,  as  you  say  the  young  lady 
was  English.  I  shall,  however,  pay  a  visit  to  the  priest 
to-morrow,  and — ^" 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  interrupted  Jean  Baptiste,  "  but  I 
forgot  to  tell  you  that  after  Ma'amselle's  death,  old 
Mother  Longpre  gave  Monsieur  le  Cure  a  great  bundle 
of  papers  that  she  found  in  a  desk  in  her  own  Toom. 
*You  may  find  some  thing  in  them?'* 

This  made  me  still  more  anxious  to  visit  the  priest, 
and  so  taking  my  hat  I  walked  down  the  street  in  the 
direction  of  the  presbytery,  hoping  that  some  lucky 
chance  would  give  me  an  opportunity  of  gratifying  my 
curiosity.    And  so,  indeed,  it  happened,  for,  as  I  drew 


'¥: 


16 


XLIKOR   PRESTON. 


if 


M 


near  his  house,  I  perceived  the  good  pastor  seated  under 
the  portico,  in  a  large  arm-chair,  with  his  clasped  hands 
resting  on  his  knees,  and  his  eyes  fixed  with  a  thoughtful, 
dreamy  look  on  the  silvery  track  of  the  moonlight  stretch- 
ing far  and  away  over  the  broad  river.  Unwilling  to 
disturb  such  tranquil  repose,  I  made  a  turn  or  two  up 
and  down  the  street  in  front  of  the  house,  making  a 
short  pause  each  time  as  I  passed,  and  succeeded  at  last 
in  catching  the  good  priest's  eye.  He  immediately  left 
his  seat,  and  bowed  with  the  easy  grace  so  characteristic 
of  the  genuine  French  Canadian.  Having  made  our- 
selves mutually  acquainted,  we  were  soon  engaged  in  a 
familiar  chat,  cosily  seated  at  an  open  window  of  the 
priest's  little  parlor.  Our  conversation  was  in  English, 
which  Mr.  Lacroix  seemed  to  know  very  well  in  theory, 
though  his  tongue  made  sad  work  of  some  of  its  pecu- 
liar sounds.  Still  he  would  persist  in  speaking  it,  be- 
ing glad,  as  he  told  me,  of  the  opportunity,  "  for,"  said 
he,  '^  English  is  to  me  as  much  a  dead  language,  at  the 
present  time,  as  either  Greek  or  Hebrew.  I  am  glad 
to  speak  it  with  you,  sir,  for  I  fear  to  forget  it  altogether. 
I  think  I  could  not  speak  it  now,  were  it  not  for  a  young 
lady  who  taught  my  school.  She  was  from  Ireland — I 
suppose  Monsieur  knows  Ireland  ?  "  He  paused,  and  I 
replied  with  a  smile : 

*'  I  should,  I  think  I  ought  to  know  it^  inasmuch  as  it 
is  my  own  country." 

"  Ah,  indeed !  then  Monsieur  is  a  compatriot — ^I  mean 
a  countryman  of  my  good  young  friend.  Her  name 
was  Preston — ^Mademoiselle  Elinor  Preston." 


I 


BLINOR   PRESTON. 


17 


t 


"  Preston !  "  I  repeated ;  "  why,  there  is  a  noble  family 
of  that  name  in  Ireland — and  I  have  never  known  any 
of  the  name  who  were  not  of  good  stan<^ing." 

"  Standing  1 "  inquired  the  priest. 

"  I  mean,"  said  I,  in  explanation,  "  that  it  is  what  we 
call  a  respectable  name." 

"  Ah !  I  understand  ;  and  this  young  lady — Miss 
Preston — was  most  respectable — every  way  respect- 
able," pronouncing  the  adjective  with  marked  emphasis, 
and  in  the  purest  French ;  for  words  like  this,  which  are 
the  same  in  both  languages,  are  invariably  spoken  in 
the  mother  tongue.  "  She  was  an  honor  to  her  coun- 
try, sir ;  and  her  death,  which  toolc  place  a  year  ago,  was 
a  great  loss  to  us — a  very  great  loss,  I  assure  you." 

T  then  expressed  my  desire  to  know  something  about 
the  young  lady,  and  how  it  was  that  she  came  to  settle 
down  in  a  place  so  remote,  where  even  her  own  Ian- 
guage  was  not  spoken. 

**  Ah  !  "  said  the  good  priest,  "  that  is  what  I  hardly 
know  myself:  some  things  she  told  me,  but  they  are 
too  long  to  tell,  and  Monsieur  can  have  the  story  in  her 
own  words.  I  think  it  was  a  childish  fancy  made  her 
settle  here,  but  I  don't  know.  It  is  all  here,  I  sup- 
pose ! "  and  going  to  a  venerable-looking  escrutoire,  in  a 
comer  of  the  room,  he  drew  forth  a  roll  of  papers  al- 
ready somewhat  discolored  by  the  hand  of  time.  This 
he  gave  to  me,  saying :  "  I  have  looked  them  over,  and 
I  know  there  is  no  family  or  personal  secret  in  question 
—60  you  may  have  them  to  read," 


18 


^, 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


Thanking  the  good  priest,  I  asked :  "  Was  the  lady 
young?"     ^> 

*'  Not  very :  she  might  have  been  thirty  or  there- 
abouts when  she  came  to  us,  and  she  was  here  five  years. 
She  looked  even  older,  because  of  her  grave  and  pensive 
aspect." 

Declining  the  refreshments  offered  by  the  priest,  not- 
withstanding the  tempting  neatness  of  the  aged  house- 
keeper who  brought  in  the  tray,  I  bade  good-night  to  my 
new  acquaintance,  and,  leaving  him  to  read  his  Ofiice, 
hastened  to  the  privacy  of  my  chamber  in  the  little  hos- 
telrie,  there  to  learn  the  story  of  the  dead  from  her  own 
simple  words,  written  in  that  small  running  hand,  easy, 
light,  and  graceful,  which  we  somehow  connect  in  oup 
minds  with  white  taper  fingers. 


€lmx  |nst0n* 


V  '-^ 


"  What  a  strange,  weird  thing  is  life ! "  began  the 
manuscript ;  "  who  can  penetrate  its  secrets,  who  unravel 
its  tangled  web  1  A  solemn  fact  it  is,  with  the  past  and 
the  future  ever  mingling,  yet  never  mingled,  and  the 
frail  creature  suspended  by  that  filmy  thread  above  the 
unfathomable  ocean  of  eternity !"  It  has  been  said  that 
"  there  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men,"  and  who  can  doubt 
it  1  The  Christian  and  the  unbeliever  are  alike  hurried 
on  by  this  resistless  tide,  towards  the  goal  of  death,  the 
only  difference  being  that  the  latter  struggles  and  plun* 
ges,  and  grasps  at  every  twig  that  may  retard  his  prog- 


SLINOR   PRESTON. 


19 


»•■%• 


ress,  while  the  former  floats  calmly  on  towards  the  eter- 
nal bourne  beyond  which  lies  his  home  in  the  everlasting 
mansions. 

Yet,  even  to  the  calm,  unworldly  Christian  nothing 
fearing,  nothing  doubting,  but  leaving  all  in  the  hands 
of  divine  Providence,  this  life  is  full  of  mystery.  Who 
can  account  for  the  train  of  circumstances  that  brought 
me  here  ? — here,  "  in  the  forests  of  the  West,"  where  but 
few  generations  have  passed  away  since  the  Indian  built 
his  wigwam  and  launched  his  bark  canoe,  sole  master 
of  the  land  and  the  mighty  river  1  Yet  here  I  am.  I — 
the  daughter  of  a  race  who  were  knights  and  nobles  in 
the  Old  World,  before  the  veil  was  uplifted  from  the 
New !  Truly  the  tide  aforesaid  has  been  playing  strange 
pranks  with  Elinor  Preston,  but  it  certainly  has  not  led 
her  on  to  fortune.  Fortune,  indeed ! — what  care  I  for 
fortune  ?  I  flung  it  from  me  when  I  had  it  within  my 
grasp,  nor  do  I  now  regret  it.  Much  have  I  lost  that  I 
do  regret,  and  shall  ever  regret  while  life  is  left  me.  A 
golden  circle  of  loving  hearts  have  I  seen  shattered*and 
melted  down  in  the  crucible  of  time.  I  myself  am 
the  only  link  remaining  in  this  nether  world,  and  my 
heart  is  the  sole  earthly  repository  of  the  loves  and 
hopes  and  fears  that  made  up  the  lives  of  all. 

Here  I  am,  alone :  alone  in  the  midst  of  my  fellow- 
creatures — a  mystery  to  all  around  me.  Lonely  I  am, 
but  not  desolate,  for  my  heart  is  full  of  faith  in  the  di- 
vine promises,  and  the  villagers,  among  whom  my  way- 
ward fate  has  cast  me,  are  guileless  as  our  first  parents 
in  their  pristine  state,  and  kind  as  love  and  pity  could 


^ 


\ 


20 


v*e' 


EUNOR  PRBSTOK. 


make  them.  They  do  not  treat  me  as  a  stranger,  and 
/  their  artless  confidence  wins  my  heart.  Although  dif- 
fering in  almost  every  thing  from  my  own  people,  there 
is  still  one  sacred  bond  of  union  between  us — one  broad 
platform  on  which  we  stand  side  by  side ;  it  is  the  bond  of 
&ith,  the  platform  of  Catholicity.  So  I  am  not  a  stranger 
here — be  still,  sad,  yearning  heart ! — ^I  am  not  a  stranger 
where  I  can  pray  with  all  the  people,  and  be  nourished 
with  the  sacraments,  whose  fruits  are  visible  in  the  calm 
bright  current  of  their  peaceful  life.  I,  too,  have  found 
peace  in  this  secluded  spot,  peace  which  I  had  sought  in 
vain  amid  the  glare  and  glitter  of  more  polished  society. 
Hiere  are  moments  when  I  can  smile  at  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  gay  and  perhaps  brilliant  Elinor  Preston,  a 
few  years  since 


tt 


-the  fayor'd  guest 


In  many  a  lighted  hall/'        w  *  . 

the  dispenser  of  fashion  to  an  admiring  circle — and  not 
small — of  country  elegants,  the  sun  of  a  nice  little  solar 
system.  The  metamorphosis  is  complete.  The  flight  of 
years — few  but  heavy-laden  with  sorrow  and  reverse — 
has  crushed  the  buoyant  spirit  and  withered  the  roseate 
dieek,  and  dimmed  the  sparkling  eye  of  the  ball-room 
belle ;  and  I  sit  as  demurely,  day  after  day,  hammering 
the  alphabet  into  thick  little  skulls,  as  though  I  had  been 
all  my  life  a  "  school-ma'am,"  as  a  female  teacher  is, 
oddly-enough,  called  in  the  neighboring  Republic. 

But  why  all  this  ?  why  do  I  find  myself,  pen  in  hand, 
putting  my  retrospective  fancies  on  paper  ?   Who  shall 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


21 


»%> 


read  then,  'l  who,  in  all  this  vast  region,  will  ever  be  in- 
terested in  the  reminiscences  of  a  being  so  utterly  iso- 
lated— a  branch  lopped  off  from  the  parent  tree,  or 
rather  left  to  mourn  its  fall,  and  flung  by  the  capricious 
wind  of  fate  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  globe  1  No 
matter,  though  there  be  none  to  read ;  it  will  fill*  up 
many  an  hour  that  would  hang  heavy  on  my  hands,  and 
if,  as  I  sometimes  think,  the  disease  that  carried  off  my 
mother  in  the  bloom  of  life  has  already  commenced  its 
ravages  on  my  attenuated  frame,  then  this  scroll  shall 
remain — sole  relic  of  my  thirty  years'  sojourn  in  this 
vale  of  tejirs.  Some  wanderer  from  my  own  loved  land 
may  chance  to  stumble  on  my  papers  when  I  have  passed 
from  this  w^orld,  even  some  one  who  knew  me  in  those 
early  years,  now  clear  and  bright  before  my  mental 
vision  as  the  mountains  of  green  Erin  in  the  morning 
sun.  So  with  this  will-6*'the'Wisp  to  guide  me,  I  will 
glance  briefly  over  the  past. 

I  am  the  last  of  all  my  family.  Parents,  and  broth- 
ers, and  sisters,  nay,  even  uncles  and  aunts,  have  all  dis- 
appeared in  the  waves  of  time, — Heaven  rest  their  souls 
in  mercy  !  And  yet  I  am  not  old,  that  is,  not  very  old, 
although  1  used  to  think  thirty  a  good  round  age,  and 
perhaps  it  is,  too,  in  the  present  curtailed  duration  of 
human  life*.  My  father  was  a  member  of  the  Irish  bar, 
and,  though  by  no  means  distinguished  in  his  profession, 
was,  nevertheless,  universally  respected  for  honesty  and 
integrity.  Strictly  honorable  in  his  dealings  with  all 
men,  and  quite  willing  to  assist  the  needy  when  he  had 
it  in  hi*  power,  he  had  many  friends,  and  few  or  no  ene- 


«^^. 


22 


BLXirOR   PBXSTOir. 


mies.  He  was,  indeed,  one  of  those  good,  easy  men  who 
seem  to  glide  as  smoothly  through  the  world  as  thjugh  it 
had  neither  roclcs  nor  shoals.  My  mother  was  of  a  dif- 
ferent temperament  Endowed  with  very  uncommon 
powers  of  mind,  her  sensibility  was  most  acute,  and  the 
trials  and  troubles  which  passed  so  lightly  over  my  fa- 
ther's head,  fell  on  her  heart  with  crushing  weight.  Her 
mind  was  too  highly- wrought,  her  aspirations  too  lofly, 
and  her  standard  of  excellence  too  high,  for  the  average 
run  of  society,  and  the  consequence  was  that  she  invol- 
untarily shrank  from  the  world,-— and  the  world  soon 
found  that  out,  and  set  my  dear  mother  down  as  a  very 
unsocial  sort  of  person,  because,  forsooth !  she  could  not 
bring  herself  down  to  its  level,  and  do  and  say  just  what 
it  bade  her.  There  were  among  our  visitors — chiefly 
my  father's  professional  friends — ^some  few  who  could 
and  did  appreciate  my  mother,  and  were  in  turn  rever- 
enced and  esteemed  by  her.  One  of  these  was  an  el- 
derly gentleman,  of  large  and  massive  frame,  finely- 
formed  head,  and  a  countenance  at  once  expressive  of 
piercing  intellect,  and  keen,  shrewd,  caustic  humor.  He 
had  a  voice  like  a  stentor,  and  an  eye  like  a  hawk.  There 
was  another — the  direct  opposite  of  the  gentleman  just 
described — who  was,  like  him,  a  fast  and  firm  friend  of 
my  mother's.  He  was  a  small  man,  a  very  small  man, 
indeed,  with  a  head  so  much  too  large  for  his  body  that 
it  gave  him  a  dwarfish  look.  Yet  his  countenance  was 
one  that  attracted  the  beholder,  hot  from  the  beauty  of 
feature  or  color,  but  because  of  the  fire  which  darted 
from  his  eye, — the  fire  of  genius  aM  of  inspiration.    In 


XLINOR   PRK8T09. 


23 


just 
id  of 
man, 
that 
was 
by  of 
irted 


my  earlier  days  these  two  individuals  were  on  the  most 
friendly  terms,  but  there  came  a  time  when  they  were 
worse  than  strangers,  so  that  no  one  thought  of  inviting 
them  to  the  same  table.  Years  and  years  had  they  la- 
bored together  in  a  great  work — a  work  of  more  than 
national  importance ;  but  the  strife  of  politics  grew  up 
between  them,  and  they  were  totally  estranged.  Through 
all  the  storm  of  contention,  both  the  Titans  kept  up  their 
friendly  intercourse  with  my  parents,  for  my  father, 
though  a  warm  adherent  of  our  large  friend,  took  no 
prominent  part  in  politico.  Our  domicile  was  situated 
in  a  professional  street,  adjoining  Rutland  Square.  We 
had  also  a  country-house  near  the  Curragh  of  Kildare, 
where  my  father  had  a  small  property.  Whether  in 
town  or  country,  we  were  surrounded  by  every  thing 
gay  and  cheerful ;  and  when  we  had  no  visitors,  which, 
to  say  the  truth,  seldom  happened,  our  own  family  was 
in  itself  a  circle  large  enough  for  social  enjoyment.  I 
had  two  brothers  and  two  sisters,  all  older  than  myself, 
with  the  exception  of  little  Carry,  my  pet  sister,  the  pet 
of  the  whole  family,  the  spoiled  darling  who  ruled  us 
all.  We  had  also  an  ancient  aunt,  who  lived  with  us,  a 
spinster  of  much  energy  and  determination  of  character. 
And  a  character  she  was  too,  my  poor  Aunt  Kate !  with 
her  tall,  stiff,  angular  form,  her  long,  thin,  and  very 
marked  features,  and  her  precise,  formal  manner.  She 
had  a  vast  opinion  of  her  own  consequence,  together 
with  no  small  share  of  family  pride,  and  looked 'do^ 
from  a  dignified  elevation  on  my  dear  mother,  whose 
birth  was  a  shade  or  two  lower  than  her  own ;  for  she 


r\ 


24 


ELINOR   PBESTON. 


r< 


was  my  father's  sister,  and  both  were  come  c  what  is 
called  a  good  family.  They  were,  indeed,  collateral 
descendants  of  that  Lord  Gormanstown  who  took  so 
prominent  a  part  in  the  troubles  of  1641.  Not  a  soul 
belonging  to  them  had  ever  been  in  business,  as  far  as 
Aunt  Kate's  recollection  went,  and  it  went  back  very 
far,  a  great  way  beyond  the  loyal  old  Lord  of  the  Pale, 
the  defender  of  king  and  country,  while  my  mother\i 
progenitors  were,  on  the  contrary,  all  business  people. 
**  Shopkeepers,  my  dear  ! "  as  my  Aunt  Kate  used  to  say 
to  some  confidential  friend,  with  a  face  expressive  of  the 
most  sovereign  contempt.  Yet  the  dear  old  lady  had 
her  good  points,  and  was,  on  the  whole,  any  thing  but  a 
bad  sister-in-law  to  my  poor  mother.  She  had  been 
somewhat  of  a  belle — at  least  she  said  so— in  her  early 
days,  and  prided  herself  still  on  what  she  called  the  gen- 
tility of  her  carriage.  She  was  fond  of  dress,  but  un- 
luckily she  always  managed  to  wear  the  most  fantastic 
costume  that  ever  woman  wore,  at  least  in  this  exquisite 
nineteenth  century.  Yet,  dear  Aunt  Kate  was  a  special 
favorite  with  our  most  distinguished  visitors,  to  whom 
her  little  odd  ways  were  worth  gold,  while  the  sterling 
value  of  her  character  commanded  their  esteem.  The 
barrister  to  whom  I  first  alluded  took  special  pleasure 
in  practising  on  my  good  aunt's  simple  vanity,  and  even 
now,  when  time  and  death  ha\e  made  their  memories 
solemn,  I  can  hardly  refrain  from  smiling  as  I  sit  in  my 
lonely  room  and  summon  from  the  storehouse  of  the 
past  the  Hogarth-like  pictures  of  many  a  humorous 


\ 


KLIIfOR  PRSSTOK. 


25 


■cene  wherein  my  ancient  relative  and  the  great  lawyer 
were  the  principal  actors.  »  ' 

It  80  happened  that  our  friend  had  a  friend  who  was 
famous  for  having  the  tenderc.sf  and  most  inflammable 
of  hearts  where  our  sex  was  concerned.  To  borrow  the 
words  of  a  song  more  popular  than  elegant ; 

,  "  Red-hot  as  a  ball  from  a  canuon        '     ' 

Waa  thk  IrishmaD's  heart  for  the  ladies." 

He  was  a  man  of  some  genius,  too,  having  attained  some 
distinction  in  the  world  of  science — a  gentleman  by 
birth  and  by  education ;  yet,  strange  to  say,  his  years 
were  "  in  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf,"  and  he  still  pining 
in  singled—shall  I  say  blessedness? — ^not  so,  for  honest 
Tom  was  not  blessed  in  his  singleness,  and  would  hrfve 
made  himself  cfo?/i/c  if  he  could.  In  fact,  he  was  known 
to  have  made  several  fruitless  attempts,  and  had  lat- 
terly desisted  in  very  hopelessness.  And  yet,  he  was 
neither  old  nor  ugly,  but  somehow  that  capricious  deity 
Hymen  seem  to  have  declared  against  him.  It  was, 
however,  well  understood  among  his  friends — and,  to 
say  the  truth,  he  had  very  many — that  the  wearing  of 
petticoats  was  7iot  the  sole  qualification  he  required  in 
the  favored  she.  The  possession  of  youth  and  beauty 
was  said  to  be  indispaisably  necessary.  Now  all  this 
was  well  known  to  the  arch  wag  who  was,  in  fact,  Tom's 
great  patron,  model,  and  it  might  be,  master,  and  good 
capital  he  made  use  of  it  for  the  amusement  of  himself 
and  others.  One  of  these  frolics  I  am  tempted  to  tell, 
as  one  of  our  own  family  was  a  party  concerned^ 


N 


26 


SLIKOR   PRESTON. 


"Tom,"  said  he  one  day  to  his  devoted  follower, 
"  how  stands  your  heart  just  now  ?  Engaged,  or  not 
engaged,  that  is  the  question  1  ** 

"  Disengaged,  I  pledge  you  my  honor.'* 

"  Well,"  said  the  counsellor,  assuming  a  confidential 
air,  and  lowering  his  voice  to  almost  a  whisper,  "  I  have 
a  young  lady  in  perspecto^  who  will  suit  you  to  a  T :  a 
bewitching  creature,  Tom,  highly  accomplished,  and  all 
the  rest,  every  thing,  in  fact,  that  a  reasonable  man 
could  desire.  I  hope  she  may  not  think  you  too  old — 
that's  all." 

"  Me  too  old ! "  cried  Tom  with  a  start ;  "  why  surely 
you  jest !  It  is  not  come  to  that  with  me  yet,  I  think. 
But?  who  is  the  lady,  my  dear  sir  1 — do  I  know  her  ?  " 

***You  shall  know  her,  and  that  before  long.  But 
mind,  I  manage  this  'matter  myself.  I  must  manoeuvre 
a  little  to  bring  you  together,  for  the  lady  has  quite  a 
distrust  of  strangers,  especially  if  they  be  unmarried 
gentlemen.    You  understand  1 "  ^ ' 

**  Oh !  yes,  perfectly,"  said  Tom,  looking  all  the  time 
very  much  puzzled ;  "  but,  I  say,  my  good  sir,  where's 
the  use  in  my  trying  any  more  ?  the  fates  are  against 
me,  I  see  that  clearly." 

"  Pooh !  pooh !  nonsense,  man  !  Your  hour  has  not 
come  yet.  Mi/  lady  will,  I  hope,  be  the  star  of  your 
fortune ;  so  mind  you  be  all  ready,  *  puffed,  powdered, 
and  shaved,'  when  I  call  for  you  on  Thursday  next.  We 
dine  at  Harry  Preston's,  and  so  does  your  pole-star  that 
is  to  be.  I  am  anxious  to  see  you  settled,  Tom  !  I  am, 
upon  my  honor .  and  will  depend  on  you  to  turn  this 


SLINOR   PRBSTON. 


27 


opportunity  to  account.  You  may  never  have  such 
another,  mind,  I  tell  you." 

Tom  was  profuse  in  his  thanks  for  such  fatherly  kind* 
ness,  and  promised  to  be  very  punctual  on  Thursday : 
indeed,  that  was  not  any  great  stretch  for  him,  for  ho 
was  at  all  times  remarkably  punctual  to  his  appoint- 
ments. 

This  arranged  to  his  satisfaction,  as  regarded  the  gen- 
tleman, he  next  made  it  his  business  to  see  my  aunt,  to 
whom  he  slily  insinuated  that  a  certain  friend  of  his  was 
most  anxious  to  make  her  acquaintance.  '^What  his 
motives  are,  Miss  Preston,  it  is  not  for  me  to  say, 
neither  would  it  be  decorous  if  I  did,  inasmuch  as  young 
gentlemen  who  desire  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  young 
ladies,  are  apt  to  have  peculiar  notions  of  their  own." 

"  Oh !  certainly.  Counsellor !  certainly,"  said  my  aunt, 
trying  hard  to  bring  up  a  blush,  and  affecting  to  be  very 
intent  on  the  workbox,  whose  contents  she  was  arrang- 
ing at  the  moment.  "  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  meet 
the  gentleman,  as  you  say  he  is  a  friend  of  yours." 

"  A  very  particular  friend,  indeed !  ^  Good-morning, 
Miss  Preston,  you  must  excuse  the  shortness  of  my 
visit.  I  am  just  on  my  way  to  that  meeting  at  the  Ro- 
tunda. I  hope  you  will  pay  a  little  extra  attention  to 
your  toilet  on  Thursday,  for  even  you,  my  dear  Miss 
Preston,  cannot  afford  to  dispense  with  the  aid  of  orna- 
ment. I  never  could  agree  with  him  who  said  that 
'  Beauty  unadorned  is  adorned  the  most.'  I  know  Mrs. 
Preston  is  invisible  at  this  hour,  but  you  will  have  the 
goodness  to  tell  her  that  I  bring  an  extra  guest  on  Thur* 


t 
• 


28 


X. 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


day.  Good-morning  once  again ! — ^how  well  that  blush 
becomes  you ! " 

With  a  hasty  shake-hands  he  slipped  through  the 
door,  fearful  of  laughing  in  the  face  of  the  simpering  old 
lady,  whose  face  had  no  fresher  color  at  the  moment 
than  the  drab  silk  dress  she  wore.  * 

Great  and  very  pleasurable  was  the  excitement  of 
my  dear  good  aimt  all  that  afternoon,  and  all  next  day, 
which  was  the  eve  of  the  great  day.  It  is  true  she  kept 
the  secret  to  herself,  at  least  she  thought  so,  never  once 
intimating,  even  to  my  mother,  that  she  had  any  particular 
interest  in  the  expected  stranger.  To  us  girls,  however, 
(we  were  none  of  us  of  age  yet  to  be  brought  into  com- 
pany,) she  was  a  little  more  communicative,  givmg  us 
divers  hints  of  the  great  conquest  she  had  in  view. 
After  a  careful  and  very  close  examination  of  her  ward- 
robe, she  sallied  out  on  Wednesday  morning,  alone  and 
on  foot,  leaving  a  message  for  my  mother  that  she  was 
going  a-shopping.  Shortly  after  her  return,  arrived  a 
porter  with  a  rather  large  parcel ;  and  my  aunt,  who  was 
evidently  on  th%  watch,  called  to  the  servant  from  the 
staircase  to  bring  it  at  once  to  her  room.  '' 

After  tea,  we  all  went  to  Portobello  Gardens  to  wit- 
nelfe  an  exhibition  of  fire-works,  and,  on  returning  home, 
my  parents  found  some  friends  who  had  dropped  in  to 
spend  the  evening.  The  visitors  being  very  intimate 
with  the  family,  my  sister  Emily  and  I  were  permitted 
to  remain  in  the  drawing-room,  and  a  merry  evening 
we  all  had  of  it.  I  remember  particularly  one  gentle- 
man giving  us  an  account  of  a  scene  which  he  had  that 


♦     !i 


L. 


ELINOR  FRSSTOir. 


39 


nt  blush 

ugh  the 
>ring  old 
moment 

(lent  of 
ixt  day, 
he  kept 
er  once 
rticular 
)wever, 
io  com- 
bing us 
L  view, 
ward- 
lie  and 
le  was 
ved  a 
10  was 
m  the 

)  wit- 

lome, 

in  to 

mate 

itted 

suing 

ntle- 

that 


day  witnessed  at  the  steps  of  the  Bank  of  Ireland,  in 
which  Blind  Ousely,  the  famous  fanatic  and  street- 
preacher  was  the  principal  actor.  The  story  was  told 
with  infinite  humor.  The  narrator  was  gifted  with  rare 
imitative  powers,  did  ample  justice  to  the  whiping  cant 
of  the  would-be  apostle,  and  the  rich,  liquid  tones  of  the 
Dublin  "  Jackeens,"  who  cracked  their  jokes  at  his  ex- 
pense, and  paid  back  his  unctuous  exhortations  word 
for  word  with  their  local  slang.  We  youngsters  en- 
joyed this  amazingly,  and  even  my  grave  aunt  unbent 
sufficiently  to  honor  the  narrator  with  a  patronizing 
smile. 

The  evening  wore  on,  and  one  by  one  our  visitors 
dropped  off,  when,  after  sitting  a  while,  talking  over  the 
exhibition,  and  other  matters  of  equal  interest  to  our- 
selves, Emily  and  myself  were  gently  reminded  by  my 
mother,  that  late  hours  were  any  thing  but  good  cos- 
mestics  for  young  girls,  whereupon  we  instantly  retired,  ^ 
for  that  dear  parent's  word  was  ever  law  to  us.  It 
might  have  been  an  hour  after,  and  the  house  was  silent 
as  death,  when  a  wild  shriek  roused  us  from  our  beds. 
Hurrying  out  into  the  lobby,  my  sister  and  I  were  met 
by  my  father  and  mother,  who  had  but  lately  come  up 
stairs. 

"  What  on  earth  can  that  be  1"  exclaimed  my  mother, 
pale  as  a  ghost ;  *'  one  would  think  the  sound  came  from 
the  drawing-room." 

"That  is  impossible,  my  dear,"  observed  my. father, 
**  for  you  know  we  left  it  so  lately,  and  Fm  positive  there 
wasn't  a  creature  in  it  then." 


\ 


JO 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


■  "Whether  or  no,  father,  it's  from  there  the  sound 
comes,"  said  George,  my  eldest  brother,  popping  out 
of  his  room  half  dressed. 

"  Well !  well !  let  us  go  down  at  all  events,"  said  my 
mother — so  down  we  all  went.  Carry  clinging  to  my 
mother's  skirts  in  mortal  terror.  On  reaching  the 
drawing-room,  there  was  a  slight  hesitation  visible  in 
my  father's  manner,  but  unwilling  to  let  it  appear,  he 
hastily  opened  the  door,  and  in  we  all  went  with  a  rush. 
What  a  sight  met  our  eyes !  O,  for  your  pencil,  Hogarth ! 
to  do  justice  to  the  inimitable  picture.  A  bedroom  candle 
flickered  on  a  table,  its  faint  light  hardly  dispelling  the 
gloom  of  the  spacious  apartment,  and  we  had  to  look  very 
closely  before  we  perceived  that  any  living  soul  was  pres- 
ent. But  sure  enough  there  was,  for  in  a  large  arm-chair, 
near  the  fireplace  sat,  or  rather  reclined,  my  Aunt  Kate, 
#  looking  more  like  a  spectre  than  a  thing  of  flesh  and 
blood.  She  had  evidently  changed  her  dress  since  we 
saw  her  an  hour  or  so  before,  and  such  a  dress  as  that 
in  which  she  now  appeared  no  sane  mortal  ever  wore  in 
our  generation,  at  least  off  the  stage.  The  robe  was  of 
some  dark,  heavy  material,  literally  covered  with 
spangles,  especially  about  the  bosom,  and  the  head- 
dress consisted  of  a  turban-like  roll  of  scarlet  gauze, 
ornamented  with  short  marabout  feathers,  presenting  a 
woful  contrast  to  the  corpse-like  countenance  of  my 
poor  aunt. 

"  Ho !  ho !  Kate,  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  my  father, 
well  pleased  to  find  Ihat  nothing  serious  was  the  maV> 
ter.     *'  You  came  dow  n  tc  make  your  toilet  at  the  pier* 


t 


SUNOR  PRESTON. 


a^ 


g]ass :  eh,  Kate  1  I  suppose  you  meant  to  dress  over 
night,  when  you  had  the  room  to  yourself. " 

"  Be  still  now,  Harry,"  said  my  gentle  mother,  see- 
ing the  real  blush  that  mounted  to  her  sister-in-law's 
face.  "  Poor  Kate  has  been  taken  suddenly  ill,"  at  the 
same  time  she  made  a  sign  to  us  youngsters  to  restrain 
our  mirth,  for  we  were  actually  in  fits  of  laughter. 

*'  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  another  time,"  whispered  my 
aunt,  eagerly  laying  hold  of  the  smelling-bottle  offered 
by  my  mother. 

"  What  brought  you  here  at  all,  Kate  1 "  persisted  my 
father,  in  his  blunt,  good-natured  way.  "  One  would  think 
you  were  playing  la  sonnambula,  and  had  w^alked  forth 
in  the  body  in  a  costume  from  the  land  of  dreams." 

"  You  will  oblige  me,  Harry  Preston,"  said  my  aunt, 
stiffly  rising  from  her  '^.hair,  to  our  increased  amuse- 
ment— "  you  will  obligtj  me  by  keeping  such  remarks  to 
yourself.  I  desire  that  you  should  remember  who  I  am. 
I  should  think  a  fine  dress,  even  a  fancy  dress,  is  nothing 
new  in  our  family.  I  am  grieved  to  see  you  so  forget- 
ful of  what  is  due  to  your  sister,  and  your  children,  of 
course,  follow  suit.  Teresa ! "  to  my  mother,  "  I'll 
trouble  you  to  help  me  up  stairs.  Thank  you,"  she 
said,  in  her  most  dignified  tone  to  my  father,  who  had 
offered  his  arm,  and  she  swept  past  him  with  the  air  of 
an  empress.  When  my  mother  had  assisted  her  to  re- 
gain her  chamber,  she  confessed  to  her  that  she  had  been 
trying  on  a  new  purchase,  (in  what  costume-shop  she 
had  procured  it  we  never  knew,)  which  she  meant  to 
wear  at  dinner  on  the  following  day,  and  being  anxious  to 
see  exactly  how  it  fitted,  she  had,  as  my  father  guessed. 


Nx 


32 


SLINOB   PRESTOlf. 


gone  down  to  view  herself  and  it  in  the  pier-glass  in  the 
drawing-room ; — "  but,  my  dear  ! "  said  she,  "  the  light 
was  so  dim,  and  the  room  so  vast  and  gloomy  reflected  in 
the  glass,  that  when  I  got  a  peep  at  myself  I  was  fright- 
ened at  first,  for  the  figure  looked  for  all  the  world  like 
the  ghost  that  appears  in  Trimbleton  House.  I  really 
was  frightened  for  the  moment,  and  my  nerves  got  such 
a  shock  that  I  couldn't  get  over  it,  do  as  I  would.  But, 
Teresa,  my  dear,  not  a  word  of  this  to  any  one.  Mind, 
I'll  depend  on  you  !  " 

My  mother  would  only  promise  to  keep  the  secret  on 
condition  that  Aunt  Kate  should  give  up  the  notion  of 
appearing  next  day  in  her  new  costume.  To  this  she  wil- 
lingly acceded,  "  for  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  dear,"  said 
she,  "  I've  got  a  horror  of  it — I  have  indeed." 

So  the  luckless  costume  disappeared  forever  from  our 
gaze,  turban  and  all,  and  what  became  of  it  was  for 
many  a  day  a  subject  of  speculation  among  us.  My 
father  used,  once  in  a  while,  to  give  a  sly  hint  con- 
cerning it,  just  enough  to  excite  my  poor  aunt's  nervous 
fears,  but  a  look  from  my  mother  would  always  call 
him  to  order  just  in  time  to  save  the  delicate  secret  from 
vulgar  ken.  Carry  was  a  much  more  dangerous  indi- 
vidual, for  she  would  persist  in  talking,  at  least  in  the 
family  circle  of  Aunt  Kate's  shining  dress,  and  wonder- 
ing why  she  never  wore  it.  Threatening  Carry  was  of 
no  manner  of  use,  but  my  good  aunt  tried  various  other 
means,  chiefly  of  the  appetizing  sort.  Many  a  package 
of  choice  sugar-plums  went  to  stop  her  mouth,  ^id  a 
rose-bud  of  a  mouth  Carry  had.  But,  let  us  on  to  the 
meeting  of  my  aunt  and  her  supposed  inamorata. 


\ 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


33 


CHAPTER    II. 


IHB   DISCOVERT,  AND   OTHER  MATTERS  OF  FAMILY  HISTORY 


^'' 


N  the  following  day  my  aunt  was  dressed 
for  dinner  and  seated  in  the  drawing-room 
a  full  hour  before  the  time.  My  mother 
sat  near  her  on  the  sofa,  turning  over  the 
pages  of  Fisher's  "  Book  of  Beauty,"  in  real 
or  assumed  unconsciousness  of  the  nervous 
agitation  of  her  sister-in-law.  My  father 
was  seated  in  the  identical  chair  which  had 
received  Aunt  Kate's  fainting  bulk  on  the 
previous  evening.  His  attention  was  so  en- 
grossed by  a  parliamentary  debate,  that  he  took  but 
little  notice  at  the  moment  of  Kate  or  any  one  else. 
Exactly  a  quarter  before  five,  a  footman's  knock  echoed 
through  the  house.  My  aunt  half  started  from  her  seat, 
sat  down  again,  spread  out  her  garter-blue  satin  to  the 
best  advantage,  ran  a  finger  through  each  of  her  barrel 
curls  to  give  it  the  proper  set,  and  had  just  completed 
her  preparations  by  drawing  in  her  lips  to  smaller  di- 
mensions— for  they  were  rather  of  the  thickest— when 


n 


u 


1 


34 


s. 


XLnVOR    PRE8T0V. 


♦  - 


bang  open  went  the  door,  and  in  came  Mr.  — ,  followed 
closely  by  his  faithful  friend  Tom.  My  aunt  received 
both  with  a  gracious  smile,  and  Tom  shook  hands  all 
round  with  a  more  confident  air  than  usual,  but  it  waa 
easy  to  see  that  both  kept  watching  the  door ;  each  ex- 
pecting the  advent  of  the  promised  beau  or  belle.  And 
the  counsellor,  though  engaged  in  conversation  with  my 
&ther  and  mother,  kept  an  eye  on  the  pair  from  under 
his  projecting  brows,  his  face  all  the  time  brimful  of 
humor.  One  or  two  other  guests  having  arrived,  and 
the  hand  of  the  time-piece  on  the  mantel  pointing  to  five 
o'clock,  dinner  was  announced,  and  the  gentlemen  offered 
their  arms  to  the  ladies. 

"  Tom  ! "  cried  his  friend,  "  we  leave  Miss  Preston 
for  you.  Being  the  only  young  lady  present  she  is 
yours  by  right." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Tom,  offering  his  arm  to  the  lady 
with  anything  but  alacrity.  "I  am  much  obliged  to 
you — will  you  allow  me.  Miss  Preston  ?  " 

Miss  Preston  did  allow  him,  but  there  was  nothing 
very  cordial  in  the  acceptance  cf  his  arm. 

"  You  expected  some  others,  did  you  not  ?  "  said  Tom, 
feeling  it  necessary  to  say  something,  as  they  followed 
their  leaders  down  stairs.  He  also  hoped  to  draw  out 
the  name  of  his  expected  fair  one  by  this  indirect  means. 

"Yes,  I  believe  so,"  replied  the  lady  rather  curtly, 

thinking  of  the  enamored  swain  who  was  to  have  come 

but  did  net.     "  The  counsellor  was  to  have  brought  a 

friend  of  his." 

*'     "  Strange,"  thought  Tom,  "  he  must  have  paired  off 


V.  , 


SLIKOR   PREBT09. 


35 


with  my  young  lady.  It  is  very  provoking — very !  " 
They  were  just  entering  the  dining-room,  and  Tom  had 
to  seat  Miss  Preston,  though,  as  he  doubtless  said  ^ 
himself,  he  could  have  seen  her  at  Jericho.  During  din- 
ner nothing  occurred  to  enlighten  either  of  the  expect- 
ants. Once  my  father  made  my  aunt  change  color  by 
asking  my  mother,  with  a  sly  glance  at  his  sister,  "  What 
has  become  of  the  lady  whom  we  saw  in  ethereal  gfifiaents 
last  night  1  I  thought  we  should  have  met  her  at  dinner." 

Tom  looked  eager  and  excited — my  aunt  nervous  and 
agitated,  and  the  Counsellor  (as  my  aunt  called  him) 
eyed  the  tremor  of  both  with  intense  satisfaction.  My 
mother  looked  reproachfully  at  my  father,  but  her  voice 
when  she  spoke  was  calm  and  soil  as  usual.  ^^  The  lady 
you  mean,"  said  she,  "  left  town  this  morning,  and  will 
not  return  for  some  time."  Tom's  countenance  fell,  and 
my  aunt's  rose. 

At  the  close  of  the  desert,  when  my  aunt  and  the 
other  ladies  rose  from  the  table,  the  Counsellor  said  to 
aunt  as  she  passed  him :  "  I  owe  you  an  apology,  Miss 
Preston,  for  not  having  fulfilled  my  promise — at  least 
to  your  expectations.  I  will  tell  you  another  time  why 
the  gentleman  disappointed  us,  but,  you  see,  I  brought  a 
substitute." 

"  Stick  to  your  claret.  Counsellor,  and  don't  mind 
me ! "  was  my  aunt's  tart  reply  as  she  left  the  room. 
The  merry  laugh  that  echoed  through  the  dining-room, 
would  have  given  her  mortal  offence,  but  happily  the 
door  was  closed  behind  her,  and  her  vanity  escaped  that 
severe  wound. 


n- 


S6 


ELINOR   PRESTOir, 


Emily  and  I  were  permitted,  as  a  special  favor,  to 
■  appear  in  the  drawing-room  that  evening,  and  having 
}  got  from  my  mother  a  hint  of  what  was  going  on,  we 
were  looking  anxiously  for  the  entrance  of  the  gentlemen. 
They  came  at  last — it  was  rather  early,  too,  for  Mr.  — 
never  stayed  very  long  at  the  dinner-table  after  the  ladies 
retired ;  my  aunt  was  sitting  alone  on  a  cushioned  seat 
in  one^  the  window  recesses,  when  the  Counsellor,  tuck- 
ing Tom's  arm  under  his,  led  him  up  to  her.  «    • 

"  Miss  Preston ! "  said  he,  "  I  have  spared  your  blushes 
quite  long  enough,  I  think.  This  is  the  gentleman  to 
whom  I  referred  in  a  late  conversation.  Tom,  my  good 
fellow,  I  think  you  are  already  acquainted  with  Miss 
Preston  !— eh,  Tom  1 " 

"  I  should  think  I  was,"  said  Tom  bluntly,  at  the 
same  time  averting  his  eyes  from  the  lady's  face. 

"  Well,  Tom,"  quoth  his  friend,  with  tormenting  cool- 
ness, "  I  have  done  my  share :  I  leave  you  to  do  the 
rest."    ■" '■•      '^     -  ■'    '  -    -^  ■' 

"  I — T  beg  your  pardon,  sir !  I  fear  there  is  some 
mistake,"  stammered  Tom.  "  I — I — I  wasn't  aware — 
upon  my  honor,  I  wasn't." 

"  Oh  !  of  course  not— -certainly — I  understand  your 
feelings — ^but  don't  be  ashamed,  man  !  it  is  nothing  more 
than  I  did  myself!  I  wooed  and  won  a  Kate,  too  ! " 
he  added,  witli  an  almost  imperceptible  sigh,  for  he  had 
lost  but  a  few  vears  before  the  best  and  most  cherished 
of  wives ;  and,  as  he  often  said,  he  was  never  the  same 
man  after. 

"  I  should  think  there  is  a  mistake,"  said  my  aunt, 


\ 


VLINOR   Pll^8TOlr.  Vf 

standing  up  to  the  fUll  height  of  her  commanding  fig  ^e, 
[till  she  absolutely  looked  down  upon  poor  Tom,  who 
seemed  to  cower  and  wither  away  beneath  her  cold, 
proud  glance — "  and  a  very  serious  mistake,  too.  One 
of  you,  gentlemen,  or  perhaps  both,  have  forgotten  who  / 
am.  The  descendant  of  such  a  house  as  ours  is  not  to 
be  treated  like  some  silly  chit  on  whom  any  jackeen 
may  play  off  his  pranks.  Have  the  goodness  to  let  me 
pass ! " 

Both  gentlemen  would  have  apologized,  and  my  father 
came  forward  as  a  peacemaker,  but  on  him  my  aunt  was 
doubly  severe :  "  Go,  unworthy  descendant  of  a  noble 
line !  "  said  she,  in  a  theatrical  tone ;  "  if  you  were  what 
you  ought  to  be,  no  man  would  dare  to  make  me  a  butt 
for  ridicule  in  your  house.  I  wash  my  hands  of  you 
all ! "  So  saying,  she  swam  out  of  the  room  with  the 
solemn  dignity  of  a  tragedy  queen.  My  father  burst  into 
a  loud  laugh,  in  which  the  others  soon  joined  ;  but  my 
mother,  excusing  herself  for  a  few  moments,  hurried  up 
stairs  after  my  aunt  in»order  to  reason  her  out  of  her  in- 
dignation. Tom  felt  anything  but  comfortable,  and 
told  his  friend  more  than  once  that  he  didn't  expect  such 
treatment  from  him. 

"  Pd  just  as  soon  think  of  making  love  to  my  grand- 
mother," said  he,  "  if  she  were  still  in  the  land  of  the 
living.  Now,  my  dear  sir,  that  wasn't  generous — upon 
my  honor  it  was  not ! — what  say  you,  Mr.  Preston  ?  " 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  man  !  what  about  it  1 — why,  it  was  all 
a  joke.    If  my  sister,  old  maid  like,  is  a  little  touchy  or 
so,  that's  no  reason  why  you  should  be," 
4 


N 


88 


XLINOR   PRXBTOV. 


Tea  was  now  brought  in,  and  my  mother  in  a  ftw  min- 
utes  returned  alone,  announcing  that  Miss  Preston  had 
lain  down,  "just  to  quiet  her  nerves,"  she  added  with  a 
smile. 

Man^  a  long  day  passed  before  my  poor  aunt  could 
get  over  the  effects  of  that  shock.  Encased  in  the  armor 
of  family  pride,  she  had  deemed  herself  invulnerable  to 
the  attacks  of  ridicule  or  sarcasm ;  and  now,  when  she 
found  herself  reduced  to  the  level  of  ordinary  mortals,  and 
actually  made  the  subject  of  a  practical  joke,  her  morti- 
fication was  extreme,  and  her  resentment  almost  as  great. 
That  the  Counsellor  should  be  a  party  to  the  hoax,  if  not 
its  originator,  made  the  matter  tenfold  worse.  As  for 
Tom,  he  was  too  insignificant  for  any  other  feeling  than 
contempt.  So  said  Aunt  Kate.  "  I  wouldn't  feel  half 
so  bad  about  it,  my  dear,"  said  she  to  my  mother,  "  only 
for  that  Miss  Del  any,  the  grocer's  daughter,  being  pres- 
ent." Now  this  young  lady  was  the  daughter  of  one 
of  the  most  eminent  merchants  in  Dublin ;  an  heiress, 
too,  with  a  fortune  that  would  buy  all  our  property  three 
times  over.  My  mother  smiled,  for  her  father  had  been 
a  grocer,  and  a  retail  grocer,  too,  at  one  time.  But  my 
aunt  had  no  intention  of  wounding  her  at  the  time,  and 
so  she  perceived ;  she  therefore  only  smiled,  and  said 
it  was  really  too  bad  that  any  one  had  been  present, 
"  though,  after  all,"  said  she,  "  I  can't  see  the  matter  as 
you  do.     What  was  it  but  a  joke  1 " 

**  Joke,  indeed  ! "  said  my  aunt  with  a  toss  of  her  head  \ 
**  they  ought  to  know  who  they'd  joke  with." 

The  conversatii  n  was  here  interrupted  by  the  entrance 


^ 


5 


• 


■•-     •     It- 


SLINOR   PRESTON. 


89 


ftw  milt. 
;ston  had 
)d  with  a 

Lint  could 
he  armor 
erable  to 
when  she 
rtaLs,  and 
Br  morti- 
as  great, 
ax,  if  not 

As  for 
ling  than 
'eel  half 
r, "  only 
ng  pres- 

of  one 
heiress, 
ty  three 
ad  been 
But  my 
ne,  and 
id  said 
jresent, 
atter  as 

r  head  j 

itrance 


of  my  father  with  a  gentleman  well  known  in  the  l?gal 
profession.  He  was  a  sort  of  a  character  in  his  way, 
too,  and  rejoiced  in  the  title  of  attorncy-at-law,  which 
figured  in  large  roman  capitals  on  his  door-plate,  a  little 
way  from  us  in  Dominick  street. 

The  compliments  of  the  day  being  exchanged,  my 
father  said,  "Teresa,  my  love,  I  have  been  speaking 
with  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy  here,  about  taking  George.  He 
is  now  old  enough  to  study  for  a  profession,  and  the 
sooner  he  begins,  it  is  all  the  better." 
•  "  As  you  please,  my  dear !  "  said  my  mother  in  her 
quiet  way ;  and  before  she  could  say  any  more,  Aunt 
Kate  broke  in  with — 

"  Harry  Preston  !  Pm  astonished  at  you." 

"  Indeed,  Kate  ! — and  why,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  Why,  surely  you  wouldn't  think  of  making  an  at- 
torney of  George  ?  If  you  will  have  him  a  lawyer,  why 
not  make  a  counsellor  of  him  ?  " 

"  Because  changes  are  lightsome,  my  good  sister,  and 
because  attorneys  now-a-days  make  rapid  fortunes  if 
they  only  have  their  wits  about  them — as  I  think  George 
has — and  a  tolerable  knowledge  of  their  business." 

"  I'd  as  soon  make  him  a  scavenger  !  "  said  my  aunt 
in  her  most  contemptuous  tone,  "  Who  ever  heard  of  a 
Preston  with  aitorney-at'law  after  his  name  !  Tell  me 
that,  now  1" 

"  Why,  Kate,"  said  my  father,  "  you  surely  forget. 
Don't  you  know  that  our  great-uncle,  Dick  Preston,  who 
was  land-steward  to  the  Marquis  of  Wiltshire,  was  an 
attorney  by  profession  ?  " 


40 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


t? 


"  Fie  !  fie  !  Harry  !  why  will  you  talk  so  ?  "  cried  my 
aunt,  actually  red  with  vexation ;  "  were  it  after  dinner 
now,  I  should  say  you  had  taken  too  much  wine.  Mr. 
O'Shauglmessy,"  turning  to  the  amused  lawyer  of  that 
name,  "  my  brother  talks  so  fast  at  times,  that  he  hardly 
takes  time  to  think  what  he  says.  Allow  me  to  cor- 
rect his  statement :  the  respected  relative,  to  whom  he 
has  just  referred,  was  not  a  land-steward  to  Lord  Wilt- 
shire (low  days  with  him  when  he  had  any  thing  to  do 
with  the  descendant  of  a  Cromwellian  trooper !  ) — He 
was  his  agent,  not  his  land-steward,  or  any  other  stew- 
ard ! " 

"  Land-steward,  I  maintain ! "  said  my  father  posi- 
tively, whereupon  my  aunt's  color  rose,  and  she  was 
preparing  an  angry  retort,  when  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  on 
a  signal  from  my  mother,  interfered  with — 

•  "  Well !  well !  Miss  Preston,  let  it  pass  !  Ladies  are 
always  right.  Fine  blood  the  Preston's !  remarkably 
fine  ! — we'll  make  you  a  present  of  the  honorable  gen- 
tleman, the  agent  that  was.  Ahem  !  no  need  to  quarrel 
about  him,  ahem  ! — Mr.  Preston  !  I've  got  an  appoint- 
ment at  the  courts  at  twelve  precisely — another  time 
will  do  for  Master  George's  aflTair.     Ahem  !  good-morn- 

ng,  ladies.  Business  is  business,  you  know  !  Coming 
my  way,  Preston,  eh  1 " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  my  father,  with  a  significant  glancG 
at  my  mother,  "  I'll  be  with  you  as  far  as  the  quay." 

"  How  insufferably  familiar  !  "  said  my  aunt,  as  tht^y 
left  the  room  together.  "  Preston,  indeed  !  I  wonder  how 
Harry  can  make  himself  jack-fellow  like  with  such  people ! 


\ 


^. 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


M 


ried  my 
r  dinner 
e.     Mr. 

•  of  that 
e  hardly 

to    COi'. 

k'hom  he 
•d  Wilt- 
ig  to  do 
! )— He 
ler  stew- 

ler  posi- 
she  was 

essy,  on 

dies  are 
arkably 
ble  gen- 
quarrel 
appoint- 
ler  time 
d-morn- 
Coming 

glancG 
ay." 
as  thk^y 
ier  how 
people ! 


But  he  never  had  proper  spirit,  and  never  m  ill  now,  I'm 
afraid." 

"  I  fear  not,  indeed,"  said  my  mother,  with  her  win- 
ning smije ;  and  then  she  changed  the  conversation. 
That  very  day  George  was  articled,  as  the  lawyers  say, 
to  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  and  my  poor  aunt  had  to  get  over 
her  disappointment  the  best  way  she  could. 

The  next  point  at  issue  among  the  elders  of  our  house 
was  the  sending  of  my  younger  brother  Alfred  to  col- 
lege. My  father  was  half  inclined  to  send  him  to  old 
Trinity,  the  local  Alma  Mater ^  as  being  the  craole  of 
Dublin  genius.  But  this  was  positively  objected  to  by 
my  dear  mother,  and  to  do  her  justice,  my  aunt,  too, 
declared  strenuously  against  it. 

"A  fig  for  your  Dublin  genius,"  said  she,  taking  the 
word  out  of  my  mother's  mouth,  "  Old  Trinity,  as  vou 
call  it,  is  no  place  for  Catholics.  Unless  you  want  to 
make  a  Protestant  of  Alfred,  (as  you're  making  an 
attorney  of  poor  George,)  don't  send  him  there." 

"  Kate  is  right,  Harry,"  put  in  my  mother.  "  If  he 
did  not  come  back  to  us  a  thorough-going  Protestant, 
you  would  find  him  a  very  bad  Catholic,  and  that,  in 
my  opinion,  is  still  worse.  Why  not  send  him  to 
Clongowes  ?  " 

"Pshaw '."said  my  father,"!  d  >n't  much  like  the 
Jesuits — that's  the  truth ! " 

"  More  shame  for  you  !  "  my  mother  answered,  with 
more  asperity  than  she  almost  ever  showed :  "  if  you 
were  a  more  practical  Catholic,  my  dear  Harry,  you 
would  never  say  so.     It  is  always  a  bad  sign  to  hear 


iTT 


.« ii 


t:l     ■' 


!.<      t 


§ 


I 


42 


ELINOR    PRESTON.  . 


Catholics  saying  they  don't  like  Jesuits ;  for,  after  all, 
what  order  h^s  done  more  for  the  advancement  of  re- 
ligion ?  what  order  has  waged  a  more  vigorous  war- 
Hire  against  the  powers  of  darkness  ?  You  yere  quite 
willing  to  send  George  there,  and  I  should  like  to  know 
what  the  Jesuits  have  done  since  ?  " 

To  this  my  father  could  only  answer  that  George  had 
n'»t  made  such  progress  as  he  expected  under  the  fathers 
ofClongowes. 

"That  was  his  own  fault,  not  theirs,"  said  my  mother, 
quickly  ;  "  you  know — we  all  know  that  George  is  not 
over  studious  or  attentive.  But,  to  cut  the  matter  short, 
my  dear,  I  will  never  give  my  consent  to  send  Alfred  to 
any  Protestant  institution  while  there  are  others  to  be  had. 
I  should  fear  the  responsibility  attached  to  such  a  step." 

"  Certainly,  Teresa,  certainly,"  put  in  my  aunt  again, 
"  it  would  be  a  very  shocking  thing,  indeed,  if  a  Preston 
fell  awav  from  the  true  faith." 

"  Well,  well,  ladies !  have  it  your  own  way,"  said  my 
father,  in  his  cheerful,  off-hand  way ;  "  I  have  too  much  of 
the  old  family  spirit,  Kate,  to  wage  war  on  the  weaker  sex. 
I  was  only  breaking  a  lance  for  the  sake  of  amusement : 
I  am  quite  willing  to  take  Alfred  to  Clongowes  to-mor- 
row, by  way  of  making  amends." 

My  mother  said  "  Not  q!'ite  so  soon,"  but  it  was 
agreed  upon  that  we  should  make  a  party  on  the  follow- 
ing Monday  to  escort  Alfred  to  Clongowes.  The  in- 
tervening days  were  days  of  bliss  to  us  youngsters. 
We  had  a  regular  succession  of  amusements  in  the 
»  shape  <lf  juvenile  parties,  visits  to  the  Strawberry  Beds, 


» 


\ 


I 


ifter  all, 
it  of  re- 
»us  war- 
re  quite 
bo  know 

rge  had 
fathers 

mother, 
e  is  not 
r  short, 
Ifred  to 
be  had. 
.  step." 
again, 
Veston 

id  my 

|uch  of 

jr  sex. 

lent; 

)-mor- 

was 
)llow- 
le  in- 
[sters. 
the 
Jeds, 


i 


i 


# 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


45 


the  Botanic  Gardens,  the  Zoological  Gardens  in  the 
Park,  and  lastly,  a  pic-nic  excursion  to  the  Glen  of  the 
Downs,  one  of  the  far-famed  beauties  of  beautiful  Wick- 
low.  Many  a  lovely  spot  is  hidden  among  the  wild 
mountains  of  that  region,  from  the  romantic  coast  of 
Bray  to  the  enchanted  solitudes  of  Glendalough,  from 
Powerscourt  Waterfall  to  the  world-renowned  Meeting 
of  the  Waters  in  the  exquisite  Vale  of  Avoca,  where  we 
spent  one  of  the  last  days  that  Alfred  was  with  us.  We 
had  lunch  in  the  valley  at  a  cottage  belonging  to  a  pro- 
fessional friend  of  my  father's.  In  the  pleasant  parlor 
where  we  sat  there  was  a  bay-window  draped  with  cle- 
matis and  woodbine  and  overlooking  the  famous  conflu- 
ence of  the  three  rivers.  As  w^e  sat  there  admiring  the 
prospect,  and  often  again  during  that  evening's  ramble 
through  the  Vale,  how  often  did  I  murmur  to  myself  in 
the  fullness  of  enjoyment — 

"Sweet  Vale  of  Avoca!  how  calm  could  I  rest 
In  thy  bosom  of  shade  with  the  friends  I  love  best, 
When  the  storms  which  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  should  cease. 
And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  might  mingle  in  peace." 

The  appointed  Monday  came  at  last,  and  off  we  all 
sallied  to  convey  Alfred  to  his  new  destination.  We 
were  accompanied  by  Miss  Delany  and  a  dandified 
young  gentleman  who  aspired  to  the  possession  of  her 
hand  and  fortune.  Unluckily  for  himself  he  was  much 
given  to  the  wearing  of  jewelry,  affected  a  lisping  accent, 
and  prafessed  a  great  admiration  of  every  thing  foreign, 
wiih  a  corresponding  contempt  of  every  thing  Irish.    He 


46 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


was  fain  to  pass  for  a  travelled  beau,  anc  talked  in  eo- 
stacies  of  Rhineland  and  Alpine  scenery,  although  he 
had  never  set  foot  on  the  continental  soil  of  Europe, 
Now  Miss  Delany,  notwithstanding  her  plebeian  origin, 
was  a  girl  of  fine  taste  and  cultivated  mind,  and  loved 
her  country  as  only  an  Irish  girl  can.  If  there  was  any- 
thing in  the  world  she  hated  it  was  foppery  and  affec- 
tation, and  she  never  spared  either  one  or  the  other  when 
it  fell  under  the  lash  of  her  caustic  humor.  She  was, 
however,  a  good  natured,  lively,  off-handed  girl,  and  her 
reputed  fortune  more  than  made  up  for  her  want  of  per- 
sonal attractions.  With  all  our  family  she  was  an  es- 
special  favorite,  although  Aunt  Kate  did,  at  times,  "give 
her  a  cut,"  as  she  said  herself,"  about  sugar  casks  and  tea 
canisters."  Her  mother  was  devoted  to  her  housekeep- 
ing, and  seldom  left  the  house,  except  to  go  to  church, 
which  she  did  every  morning  of  her  life,  for  they  lived 
in  Marlborough  street,  quite  near  the  Church  of  the  Con- 
ception, the  Metropolitan  Church  of  Dublin.  The  father 
was  too  much  engrossed  with  business  to  visit  much  on 
week  days,  so  what  time  Maria  could  spare  from  her 
mother  she  usually  spent  with  us. 

The  fifteen  miles  from  Dublin  to  Clongowes  were 
whirled  over  in  less  than  two  hours  by  the  wheels  of  our 
family  carriage,  a  spacious,  and  rather  old-fashioned  ba- 
rouche, drawn  by  a  pair  of  handsome  bays,  (of  whose 
speed  and  other  perfections  my  father  was  reasonably 
proud,)  and  at  four  o'clock  on  that  cloudless  summer 
afternoon  we  came  in  sight  of  the  venerable  looking  pile, 
once  a  baronial  castle,  now  the  chief  Cbtablishment  of 


SLINOR   PRESTON. 


47 


the  Jesuits  in  Ireland.  We  young  people  being  all  tol- 
erably well  read  in  the  history  of  medieval  times,  were 
quite  struck  with  the  sight  of  the  fine  old  building,  its 
noble  p"^')ortions,  massive  towers,  and  battlemented 
walls. 

"  Now,  that  is  what  I  call  an  appropriate  dwelling  for 
the  sons  of  the  martial  Loyola,  the  most  warlike  of  mod- 
ern saints."  This  exclamation  of  Miss  Dehiny  made  us 
all  smile.  But  she  heeded  us  not,  for  her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  imposing  edifice  before  us. 

"  Yes,"  said  my  mother,  catching  her  thought,  "  those 
strong  towers  are  certainly  emblematic  of  the  hereditary 
virtues  which  form  the  strength  of  the  Society  of  Jesus, 
and  enable  it  to  resist  from  age  to  age  the  unceasing 
attacks  of  the  enemy  of  souls.  The  ancient  fortalice  of 
the  Brownes  has  but  changed  masters — its  destiny  is  still 
the  same.  It  is  now  the  stronghold  of  faith,  held  for 
Christ,  by  the  valiant  brethren  of  Xavier  and  Loyola." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  be  a  Jesuit,"  lisped  young  Dillon, 
with  a  deprecating  look  at  the  heiress, 

"  I  should  think  not,  indeed,"  said  Maria,  pointedly ; 
"  pray,  Mr.  Dillon  !  were  you  educated  here  1 "  And 
she  glanced  furtively  at  my  mother. 

"  Here  ! — at  Clongowes  !  "  he  repeated  in  horror, 
"  why,  no,  Miss  Delany !  I  belong  to  Trinity— I 
graduated  there." 

"Ah,  indeed ! "  said  the  sly  Sultana,  "  I  might  have 
known  that  without  asking.  Such  good  Catholics  and 
patriotic  Irishmen  can  only  come  forth  from  Trinity 
College,  Dublin." 


I 


u 


I:.' 


i- 


1 


i 


a 


ELINOR   PRE8T0W. 

The  cool  sarcasm  of  her  tone  staggered  even  Dillon^s 
thick-skinned  self-sufficiency.  We  all  tried  hard  to  keep 
from  laughing,  while  th(i  beau  answered,  pulling  up  his 
shirt-collar  at  the  same  time :  "  No  Catholic,  or  Irish- 
man, need  be  ashamed  of  an  Alma  Mater  that  gave 
birth — literary  birth — to  Thomas  Moore." 

**  Assuredly  not !  "  said  the  incorrigible  Maria,  in  the 
same  cool,  easy  tone ;  "  Thomas  Moore  is  a  bright  ex- 
ample— he  wrote  Lalla  Rookh  and  the  Irish  Melodies, 
and  many  other  fine  things,  no  doubt,  and  left  off  going 
to  confession,  or  hearing  Mass,  or  any  other  such  old- 
fashioned  Catholic  customs,  soon  after  he  entered  the 
halls  of  Trinity.  I  wouldn't  give  one  farthing  for  the 
Catholicity  of  young  men  brought  up  in  any  such  insti- 
tution. It  is  no  longer  the  seamless  robe — the  livery 
of  our  Lord's  servants — but  a  tattered,  filthy  garment, 
whose  original  color  is  no  longer  to  be  distinguished. 
Faugh  !  I  can  smell  such  creatures  a  hundred  yards  off, 
and  if  I  had  my  will  they  would  be  banished  from  civ- 
ilized society.  A  man  or  a  woman  who,  baptized  a 
Christian,  can  lose  sight  of  his  immortal  destiny,  and 
rest  his  hopes  on  the  pitiful  vanities  of  this  world, — its 
glittering  tinsel  and  its  delusive  promises, — is,  in  my 
mind,  only  fit  to  associate  with  apes  and  monkeys." 

"  Glittering  tinsel !  "  cried  Carry,  aloud ;  "  what  is 
that  ?     Is  it  like  Aunt  Kate's  dress,  or  what  %  " 

Fortunately,  Aunt  Kate  was  not  present,  having  ac- 
cepted Alfred's  offer  to  drive  her  out  in  the  gig.  As  it 
was.  Carry's  question  served  as  a  timely  diversion  for 
poor  Dillon,  who,  under  cover  of  the  laugh  which  fol- 


\  - 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


49 


lowed,  managed  to  regain  his  self-confidence,  terribly 
shaken  by  Maria's  caustic  applications. 

We  had  now  reached  the  college  gates,  and  my  father, 
who  had  all  the  way  been  unusually  silent,  roused  him- 
self from  a  profound  reverie  to  hand  out  the  ladies, 
Dillon  extended  his  hand  with  a  gracious  smile  to  Miss 
Delanw,  but  the  light-hearted  girl  bounded  past  him  with 
a  merry  laugh,  and  the  discomfited  youth  stood  looking 
after  her  with  a  comical  expression  of  blank  amazement 
depicted  on  his  countenance.  My  father  laughed  heart- 
ily, and  tapping  Dillon  on  the  shoulder,  said  gayly : 
"Never  mind,  Authur,  never  mind;  *the  worse  luck 
now,  the  better  again,'  you  know.  Come  along,  and  see 
Alfred  made  over  to  the  Jesuits." 

"  May  I  have  the  honor.  Miss  Elinor  ? "  said  the 
dandy,  presenting  his  elbow  with  a  low  bow — so  very 
low  that  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  refuse.  So  I  took 
his  arm  as  my  mother  did  my  father's,  and  into  the  hall 
we  all  went,  and  thence  were  shown  into  the  reception- 
room, — a  noble  apartment,  ornamented  with  portraits  of 
the  principal  saints  of  the  Society  of  Jesus.  We  were 
very  soon  joined  by  the  Superior, — a  tall,  dignified  per- 
sonage, rather  in  the  decline  of  life,  with  a  grave  and 
placid  countenance,  and  a  smile  of  winning  sweetness. 
He  was  already  well  acquainted  with  my  father  and 
mother,  and  received  us  all  with  the  simple,  unaffected 
urbanity  which  ever  distinguishes  the  truly  religious.  He 
inquired  kindly  for  George,  and  seemed  pleased  to  hear 
that  he  was  becoming  rather  more  studious  than  usual. 
In  a  few  moments  we  were  all  quite  at  our  ease ;  and 


1 


s 


50 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


Dillon  so  far  forgot  his  professed  dislike  of  the  Jesuits, 
as  to  partake  with  evident  good  will  of  the  refreshmenta 
offered  by  the  good  father. 

Alfred  was  rather  in  low  spirits  at  first,  and  the  sight 
of  my  niother's  dejected  countenance  made  him  feel  none 
the  bettor ;  but  the  Superior  managed  to  give  the  conver- 
sation so  cheerful  a  turn  that  the  dullest  of  us  caught  its 
genial  influence,  and  when  we  came  to  bid  good-bye  to 
Alfred,  after  a  ramble  through  the  college  grounds,  he 
seemed  perfectly  satisfied  to  be  left  behind. 

"  You  will  find  Alfred  rather  piously  inclined,  Father," 
said  my  dear  mother,  retaining  the  hand  of  her  favorite 
son  yet  another  moment.  "  I  have  some  hopes  that  he 
may  prove  to  have  a  vocation  for  your  order." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  the  Superior,  with  a  smile ;  "  then, 
if  it  be  the  will  of  God,  we  shall  have  in  him  a  second 
Stanislaus  Kotska.  A  decided  n^  aiifestation  of  piety  ia 
one  so  young — especially  of  our  own  sex — is  very  un- 
common in  this  age  of  the  world.  George  was  not  over- 
burdened with  piety.  We  have  always  considered  that 
his  tastes  and  propensities  were  decidedly  of  a  martial 
character.  He  may  make  a  good  lawyer,  but  I  am 
rather  inclined  to  doubt  it,  inasmuch  as  he  has  not  pa- 
tience enough  to  carry  him  through  the  earlier  drudgery 
of  that  profession." 

My  father  expressed  himself  of  a  contrary  opinion. 
"  Well,  well !  "  said  the  courtly  priest,  with  his  bland 
smile,  '*  I  dare  say  you  know  him  best,  Mr.  Preston. 
However,  madam,"  to  my  mother,  "  we  shall  try  hard 
to  make  a  Jesuit  of  your  Alfred."  ,  * 


i^ 


ELINOR    PREflTOir. 


51 


He  then  bowetl  us  out,  with  many  kind  wishos  f^r  our 
health  and  happiness.  '*  Of  course  they  will,"  said  my 
aunt,  as  she  took  her  seat  in  the  carriage,  my  fither  and 
Carry  being  tc)  return  in  the  gig,  with  the  stipulation,  on 
Carry's  part,  that  she  was  to  drive. 

**  What  do  you  mean,  my  dear  Kate  1 "  inquired  my 
mother. 

"  Why,  that  they  will  be  very  sure  to  try  hard  to  keep 
Alfred  in  their  order.  It  is  not  every  day  they  happen 
on  a  Preston.  Well !  God  grant  him  grace  any  how, 
to  have  a  true  vocation — we  can  wish  nothing  better 
for  him  ! " 

It  was  now  the  cool  of  evening,  and  nothing  could  be 
more  reviving  to  mind  or  body  than  the  balmy  fresh- 
ness of  the  air,  richly  laden,  as  it  was,  with  the  delicious 
perfume  of  the  hawthorn  blossoms  wafted  from  the 
hedges  on  either  side.  Here  and  there  from  about  the 
stems  of  the  bushes  peeped  out  the  blushing  wild-rose, 
its  thin  frail  petals  already  moist  with  dew.  The  yel- 
low primrose  and  the  pale  blue-bell  enamelled  tha  green 
sloping  banks  beneath  the  hedges ;  an^  Dillon,  as  the 
only  gentleman  in  the  carriage,  had  to  get  out  more 
than  once  to  "  make  up  a  nosegay  "  for  our  petted  Carry. 

We  were  whirling  along  at  a  rapid  rate  towards  one 
of  the  outlets  of  the  metropolis,  when  Carry  clapped  hep 
hands  joyfully  and  cried,  "  Stop,  stop,  I  tell  you  ! — don't 
you  see  Susy  Broadigan  there  under  the  tree  ?  " 

And  sure  enough,  there  sat  Susy  the  apple-woman,  by 
the  side  of  a  large  basket  heaped  with  currants  and 
gooseberries,  her  staple  article  being  not  yet  in  market. 


Si 


I 


i    \ 


52 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


She  had  overheard  Carry *s  exclamation,  and  her  broad 
red  facii  was  radiant  with  smiles  as  she  called  out,  "Ah ! 
then,  God's  blessin'  be  about  you,  Miss  Carry  dear ! 
sure  it's  yourself  that's  always  glad  to  see  poor  Susy  ! " 
— rising,  and  making  at  the  same  time  a  low  curtsey  to 
my  mother ;  "  an'  the  rest  o'  the  quality,  long  life  to 
them !  " 

"  Why,  Susy,"  said  my  mother,  "  what  biings  you 
out  here  1 " 

"  Well,  ma'am,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  found  business 
a  little  slack  the  day  in  the  city  within,  so  I  thought  I'd 
try  my  luck  a  little  further,  afore  the  fruit  would  begin 
to  spoil  on  my  hands." 

"  Were  you  at  the  house  to-day  1 "  my  mother  asked. 

"Oh !  yis,  ma'am,  I  paid  the  cook  a  visit  as  usual  this 
mornin'  early — ^bedad,  it  wouldn't  do  to  neglect  that, 
for  many  a  good  bit  an'  sup  I  get  there  that  the  childrea 
wouldn't  have  any  other  way  !  The  Lord  reward  you 
an'  yours,  ma'am,  an'  may  ye  never  want  a  friend  when 
ye  need  one  !  I  hope  the  master  and  the  young  gentle- 
men are  all  well !  " 

•*  Very  well  indeed,  thank  you  ! " 

"  The  Lord  keep  them  so,"  said  Susy  fervently,  as  she 
popped  herself  down  again  on  the  stone  which  served 
her  for  a  seat. 

All  this  time  Dillon  had  been  eying  the  fruit-vender 
with  a  contemptuous,  quizzical  look,  as  though  he  con- 
sidered her  quite  a  curiosity,  and,  finding  the  carriage 
about  to  move  on.  he  thought  he  ought  to  raise  a  laugh 
at  her  expense. 


\ 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


53 


**  I  sny,  Susanna  !  "  said  he,  "  where  do  yt  u  buy  your 
paint?  I  do  admire  the  color  of  your  cheeks — it's  lovely 
— it's  divine  !  " 

"  What's  that  you  say  ?  "  cried  Susy,  in  a  raised  voice  ; 
"  is  it  axin'  me  whore  I  buy  my  paint — I'll  soon  tell  you 
that.  Mister  Arthur  Dillon — I  buy  it  where  your  ould 
father  bought  his,  when  he  used  to  be  hawkin'  knives 
an'  scissors  an'  things  round  the  city,  an*  keepin'  a  stand 
on  Carlisle  Bridge.  Not  but  what  he  was  a  daeinter 
man  than  ever  t/oiCU  be.  D'ye  hear  that,  sir  1  Sure 
it's  full  of  your  fun  your  are  this  fine  summer's  evening ; 
but  that'll  taehe  you  not  to  be  makin'  your  game  of 
God's  poor ! " 

**  Fie,  fie,  Susy,"  said  my  mother,  '*  why  do  you  speak 
so  to  the  young  gentleman  1 " 

"  Gentleman,  indeed  !  "  cried  Susy,  disdainfully  ;  "  he's 
no  more  a  gentleman,  ma'am,  than  your  coachman  there. 
I  ax  your  pardon,  ma'am,  for  makin'  y^u  such  an  an- 
swer. Gentleman,  indeed  ! "  she  repeated,  and  we  could 
hear  her  grumbling  and  talking  to  herself  as  the  carriage 
drove  off. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Dillon  !  what  do  you  think  of  Susy's 
tongue  ?  "  said  Maria,  with  more  than  her  wonted  arch- 
ness; "don't  you  think  there  is  something  in  the  old 
proverb,  that  Ws  ill  meddling  with  edged  tools  ?  "    ' 

"  What  an  excessively  vulgar  creature  !  '*  replied  the 
dandy,  still  laboring  under  the  effects  of  his  well-merited 
castigation.  ■' 

"  For  whom  do  you  intend  that  compliment  1 "  said 
Maria,  laughing.  •  "  For  Susy  or  myself,  which  ?  " 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


IS 


Ml 


"*0h  !  for  Susy,  of  course,"  he  replied  with  unusual 
energy ;  "  could  you  for  a  moment  suppose,  my  dear 
Miss  Delany,  that  any  man  could  be  found  to  speak  to 
y^^  in  such  terms  ?  "  •     • 

"  Can't  say  !  "  replied  the  provoking  fair  one,  with  a 
doubtful  shake  of  the  head,  "  tastes  are  different,  you 
know.  I  wonder  now,"  she  added,  assuming  a  thought- 
ful air,  "  how  it  would  work  were  Susy  and  I  to  change 
places.  Were  I  selling  gooseberries  by  the  quart,  and 
Susy  riding  in  a  carriage  in  such  good  company,  the  real 
or  supposed  inheritor  of  the  goods  and  chattels  of  Miles 
Delany,  Esquire,  of  Marlborough  street,  in  this  city  ; — 
query  :  would  not  my  elegance,  etc.,  and  her  excessive  vul- 
garity, change  sides  1   Ah,  flattery  !  your  name  is  man !  " 

Poor  Arthur  was  so  overpowered  by  the  crushing 
weight  of  Maria's  sarcasm,  following  so  quick  on  Susy's 
fierce  rebuke,  that  he  kept  silence  the  remainder  of  the 
way,  notwithstanding  the  good-natured  exertions  of  my 
mother  and  aunt. 

But  why  indulge  in  these  minute  details  of  scenes  so 
long  past — scenes  which  can  now  have  little  interest  for 
any,  since  most  of  the  actors  have  passed  from  this 
world.  Still,  these  detached  and  fragmentary  reminis- 
cences have  an  indescribable  charm  for  myself  in  the 
loneliness  and  isolation  of  my  present  lot.  I  love  to 
people  my  solitude  with  forms  from  the  past,  from  the 
warm,  sunny,  well-remembered  days  of  early  youth, 
when  associates  were  all  friends,  loving  and  beloved,  and 
the  veiled  fu'iure  shone  with  transcendent  brightness  in 
the  warm  gl<  w  of  young  imagination.  -Ah,  futurity!  fu* 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


55 


turity !  how  seldom  do  you  pay  back  the  golden  prom- 
ises of  the  youthful  heart !  how  seldom  do  you  improve 
on  acquaintance  !  Phantom  ! — shadow  !  what  are  you  ? 
You,  whom  we  are  always  pursuing,  but  never  overtake ! 
You,  who  promise  so  much,  and  do  so  little  !  You, 
who  steal  our  life  away  moment  after  moment,  with 
your  illusive  hopes,  till  the  gates  of  death  bring  us  to  a 
sudden  stand,  and  opening  before  us,  reveal  you  to  us, 
real  and  substantial,  in  all  the  splendor  of  celestial  bliss, 
or  the  hideous  misery  of  the  infernal  world.  Futurity, 
you  delude  me  no  longer — here,  your  power  is  at  end— 
the  fever'sh  dream  is  past,  and  I  can  look  you  in  the  face 
without  fear  or  hope,  as  regards  this  world. 

From  this  time  forward  our  family  began  to  drop 
off.  About  *a  week  after  our  visit  to  Clongowes,  my 
poor  mother  caught  cold  one  evening,  during  a  moon- 
light stroll  on  the  beach  at  Blaekrock,  where  we  had 
gone  to  spend  a  few  days.  Her  constitution  had  never 
been  to  say  strong,  and  she  had  been  visibly  declining 
since  a  few  months  after  Carry's  birth.  This  cold, 
though  at  first  considered  of  trifling  importance,  in  the 
end  cost  us  that  most  precious  life,  for  it  ended  at  last 
in  rapid  consumption,  which  in  six  weeks  carried  her  to 
the  grave,  and  left  us  all  desolate.  It  was  nigl't,  and  a 
sorrowful  night  to  us.  Alfred  had  been  summoned  from 
college,  and  he  and  George  hung  over  my  mother's  bed 
with  the  still,  mute  sorrow  of  those  who  were  about  to 
lose  their  h<^)pe,  their  pride — for  my  mother's  rare  ex- 
cellence, her  tender,  loving  heart,  and  her  exquisite  sym- 
pathy 1)T  our  childish  troubles,  endeared  her  to  us  all, 


M 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


while  her  lalents  and  accomplishments  made  us  proud 
of  her.  Her  sons,  especially,  valued  her  worth  ;  and  I 
do  not  believe  they,  either  of  them,  ever  forgot  the  unut- 
terable sorrow  of  that  night,  when,  after  receiving  the 
last  rites  with  the  beautiful  dispositions  of  the  true 
Christian,  she  calmly  breathed  her  last,  having  pre- 
viously obtained  a  pronrise  from  my  aunt  that  she  would 
never  leave  us.  The  final  parting  was  much  softened 
to  my  dear  mothor  by  Alfred's  voluntary  assurance  that 
he  would,  with  God's  assistance,  join  the  Society  of  Jesus. 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  my  son !  "  murmured  the  dying 
parent — "  Heaven  bless  you  for  that  word.  I  am  so 
glad — so  thankful !  " 

"  Well,  mamma ! "  said  Emily,  in  her  soft,  sweet 
voice,  "if  that  makes  you  glad,  I,  too,  can  give  you 
pleasure.     I  will  be  a  nun." 

"A  nun  !  my  beloved  Emily ! — and  w  here  ?  " 

"  In  Cabra  Convent,  mamma !  I  have  had  it  in  my 
mind  ever  since  we  were  present  at  Helen  Mooney's 
reception." 

My  mother  raised  her  feeble  hands  and  eyes  to 
heaven  in  pious  fervor ;  then  turning  to  me,  she  said, 
with  something  like  her  wonted  smile,  "And  what  of 
my  Elinor  1 " 

My  heart  was  too  full  to  answer,  and  I  turned  away 
to  hide  my  tears ;  but  Carry  threw  herself  down  beside 
my  mother,  and  whispered  in  her  ear,  "Mamma!  I 
won't  stay  here  after  you  go.  If  God  takes  you,  he 
may  just  take  me,  too,  and  I  want  you  to  ask  him,  when 
you  go  to  heaven,  if  hw  won't  let  me  go," 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


57 


This  touched  my  mother's  heart  more  than  all  the 
rest,  for  Carry  was  her  youngest  and  best-beloved.  So 
great  was  her  agitation,  that  my  father  was  forced  to 
tear  Carry  away ;  and  he  had  barely  time  to  return  to 
the  bed-side,  when  the  priest  who  had  just  entered  made 
a  sign  for  us  all  to  kneel,  and  to  hush  our  wailing.  He 
at  once  commenced  the  prayers  for  the  dying,  and  before 
he  had  read  them  through,  the  sudden  cessation  of  my 
mother's  laboring  breath  made  him  pause  and  look  to- 
wards her.  She  was  dead  !  and  without  giving  us  time 
to  discover  our  loss,  he  passed  on  to  the  prayers  for  the 
the  dead.  Dreary  transition !  who  has  not  felt  its  awful 
import ;  what  Christian  has  not  shuddered  at  the  thought 
that  the  soul,  which  but  a  moment  before  animated  that 
lump  of  clay,  is  already  before  its  Judge  receiving  its 
eternal  senter,v  ?  But  how  much  more  terrific  is  the 
sudden  cessat^  f  the  life-pulse,  when  the  heart  thus 
stilled  for  ever  was  the  heart  that  loved  us  best — when 
the  eye  that  has  but  now  looked  its  last  on  this  world, 
was  a  lamp  of  light,  a  fount  of  love  to  us — when  the  in- 
animate body  before  us  is  that  of  a  beloved  parent,  the 
head  and  heart  of  an  entire  family ! — ah !  it  is  then 
indeed  that  death  has  a  sting ! 

The  hushed  stillness  of  our  sorrowing  household 
during  many  weeks  of  mourning  was  strangely  con- 
trasted with  the  whirl  of  wild  excitement  going  on  in 
the  W)rld  without.  It  was  the  memorable  year  of  *43, 
whei  the  country  was  agitated  ^ 


"  From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea,"     ^ 


58 


Bi^INOR   PRESTON. 


with  the  outbursts  of  popular  feeling  on  the  great  Repeal 
question.  The  genius  of  O'Connell  had  evoked  the  full 
measure  of  enthusiasm  latent  in  the  crushed  heart  of 
Ireland,  and  the  people  arose  the  island  over  in  the  new- 
born consciousness  of  numerical  strength,  determined  to 
have  their  rights — if  they  could  be  obtained  without 
bloodshed.  Some  there  were  who  prognosticated  that 
■;he  people,  once  thoroughly  aroused  and  made  sensible 
of  their  own  strength,  would  eventually  cast  off  all  re- 
straint, break  from  their  moorings,  and  launch  out  on 
the  broad  sea  of  revolutionary  excess.  But  these  people 
reasoned  from  analogy.  They  knew  not  the  elements 
of  which  Irish  nationality  is  composed,  or  rather  the 
foundations  on  which  it  rests ;  they  knew  not  the  deep 
heart  of  Ireland,  nor  the  hold  which  religion  has  on  all 
the  feelings  and  faculties  of  the  people.  It  was  the  year 
of  the  monster  meetings,  perhaps  the  greatest  moral 
phenomena  \his  age  of  ours  has  witnessed.  The  voice 
of  the  great  liberator  reechoed  through  the  island,  as 
he  called  on  the  people  to  come  forth  in  their  might  to 
strengthen  his  arm  in  the  great  moral-force  war  he  was 
waging  against  the  colossal  power  of  England.  And 
the  people  obeyed  his  call,  and,  like  Lazarus  of  old,  they 
came  forth  from  the  grave  of  sluggish  despondency,  alive 
to  their  rights  as  men,  and  prepared  to  do  the  bidding 
of  the  mighty  master  who  held  the  fulcrum  of  the  national 
lever.  Truly  that  was,  as  O'Connell  himself  wrote, 
an  unparalleled  state  of  things,  "  with  the  people  boiling 
up  at  every  side,  \  ut  still  obedient,  as  if  they  were  under 
militiirv  command.     Not  the  least  shadow  of  danger  of 


I 


I 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


59 


an  outbreak,  or  of  any  violence — tranquillity  the  most 
perfect."  * 

Our  family,  being  in  deep  mourning,  went  but  little 
into  public,  so  that  we  missed  seeing  many  of  the  popu- 
lar gatherings.  My  father,  however,  managed  to  see  a 
few  of  them,  and  even  he,  with  his  rather  phlegmatic 
temperament,  contrived  to  catch  a  portion  of  the  enthu- 
siasm which  pervaded  all  classes.  He  had  gone  in 
O'ConnelFs  train  to  MuUaghmast,  and  there  witnessed 
the  first  appearance  of  the  great  Repeal  Cap^  with  its 
wreath  of  golden  shamrocks.  The  all  but  military  uni- 
form of  the  Repeal  leaders  quite  took  his  fancy,  and 
he  could  talk  of  nothing  else  for  some  days  after.  It 
was  nothing  but  how  this  one  looked,  and  how  that  one 
looked  in  "  the  uniform." 

"And  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Kate,"  said  he  to  my 
aunt,  who  sat  opposite  in  my  mother's  place,  "  if  you 
had  seen  Tom  as  he  stood  there  on  the  hill  by  the  side  of 
his  chief,  you  wouldn't  turn  up  your  nose  at  him  if  he 
came  a-wooing  again." 

My  aunt  half-smothered  a  rising  sigh.  Perhaps  she 
did  begin  to  repent  of  her  cavalier  treatment  of  Tom, 
but  it  would  never  do  to  say  so,  and  she  cut  my  father 
very  short  with  an  exclamation  which  was  anything  but 
complimentary  to  the  absent  swain. 

"  Well,  more  fool  you  !  "  said  my  father  with  assumed 
seriousness ;  "  you'll  never  get  such  another  chance  while 
your  name  is  Kate  Preston.     Mind  my  words  !  '* 


•  Priv  \te  lettef  to  Richard  Lalor  Shell,  written  in  Richmond  prison. 


60 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


Aunt  Kate  smiled  scornfully,  and  her  barrel-curls  lit- 
erally  rose  on  end  in- a  paroxysm  of  family  pride.  "For 
a  Preston,"  said  she,  *'wo  marriage  at  all  is  better  than 
a  low  one.  But  I  forgot,"  observing  that  he  changed 
color,  "  that  cap  fits  too  well — it  is  rather  tight,  I  see." 

"  Well !  well !  Kate,  for  God's  sake,  let  us  not  quar- 
rel— there  are  but  two  of  us  in  it  now.  Are  you  going 
to  Cabra  to-day  with  the  girls?  Emily,  my  love," 
drawing  her  to  him,  "  why  are  you  in  such  a  hurry  to 
leave  us  ?  You  will  have  all  your  life  to  spend  in  the 
convent ;  then  why  not  give  us  a  reprieve  of  some  days 
before  you  shut  yourself  up  forever  1 " 

"  My  dear  papa,"  Emily  replied,  "  life  is  short  at  the 
best,  and  I  have  as  yet  done  little  for  eternity.  Every 
day  I  spend  here  is  so  much  more  time  given  to  the 
gratification  of  self.  In  affiiirs  of  this  kind,  delays  are 
dangerous.  Do  not  ask  me  to  stay  longer ! — do  not, 
papa — my  own  dear  papa ! — if  mamma  were  alive,  you 
know  she  would  be  glad  to  see  me  going  for  such  a 
purpose." 

"  She  would  be  glad,  and  yet  sorry,  child,"  said  my 
father,  in  a  tremulous  tone,  and  pushing  back  his  chair, 
he  walked  to  the  window,  leaving  the  chop  which  he  had 
taken  on  his  fJlate,  untasted.  Two  or  three  times  he 
cleared  his  throat,  looked  out  into  the  street  as  though 
much  interested  in  something  he  saw  there,  then  walked 
back  to  where  Emily  sat,  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  head  : 

^^  She  would  not  have  prevented  you  from  going— 
neither  will  I,  Emily.  I  feel  it  is  the  will  of  God,  and 
I  know  it  is  all  for  the  better.     I'll  be  home  about  three 


ELINOR   PRESTOir. 


61 


i^-fio  mind,  and  be  all  ready  for  the  start."  He  wai 
going,  but  my  aunt  called  after  him  : 

"  Why,  Harry,  you  have  eaten  nothing.  Come  back 
and  finish  your  breakfast !  " 

But  my  father  only  smiled  and  shook  his  head  as  he 
vanished  through  the  doorway.  For  myself,  I  had  not 
been  able  to  say  a  word,  for  somehow  my  heart  was 
heavy — very  heavy,  as  though  with  a  sad  presentiment 
of  evil. 

George  had  had  an  early  breakfast,  ana  ' .  as  gone  to 
his  office,  and  Carry  was  staying  with  a  friend  at  Rath- 
mines  ;  so  our  family-party  was  small  that  morning.  It 
was  "  growing  small  by  degrees,"  as  we  sensibly  felt, 
at  times. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  Emily  said  to  me,  in  a 
low  voice,  that  she  would  like  to  see  mamma's  grave  once 
more — "just  to  take  a  last  look,"  she  added  with  a  smile 
that  was  painfully  sad  and  tender. 

"  What's  that  she  says  ?  "  inquired  my  aunt,  whose 
hearing  was  rather  impaired  of  late.  I  repeated  Emily's 
words. 

"  Poor  child !  poor  child  ! "  murmured  the  soft-hearted 
old  maid,  "  it's  only  right  she  should  have  her  wish. 
Run,  Elinor  dejir,  and  tell  Larry  to  get  out  the  carriage. 
But  stay  !  stay ! — I'll  ring ! — it  is  not  the  thing  for 
young  ladies  to  give  such  messages  to  servants — that  is, 
men-servants." 

She  rang  accordingly,  and  imperative  commands  were 

transmitted  to  Larry  to  lose  no  time  in  getting  out  the 

carriage. 

6  \ 


I    ':, 


. 


62 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


"  Lord  bless  my  sowl !  "  said  Larry,  from  the  foot  of 
the  kitchen  stairs,  "  isn't  the  ould  madam  in  the  d — 1  of 
a  hurry  this  morning  ! — I  hope  she'll  wait  till  we  feed 
the  horses  anyhow  ! — I  suppose  they  want  a  bite  as  well 
as  their  neighbors  !  " 

We  were  passing  through  the  hall  at  the  time  and  the 
sound  of  Larry's  grumbling  voice  reached  my  aunt's  ear, 
**  What  is  the  fellow  talking  about  1 "  olie  said,  raising 
her  own  voice  at  the  same  time. 

"  Oh  !  nothing  in  the  world,  Miss,"  replied  the  sup- 
ple-tongued  groom  still  from  below,  "  only  about  the 
horses,  the  cratures  ! — I'm  goin'  to  give  them  a  bite  of 
oats,  an'  after  that,  Miss,  we'll  be  ready  in  no  time." 

We  drove  to  Glassnevin,  and  each  of  us,  not  except- 
ing Aunt  Kate,  had  "  a  good  cry  "  over  my  dear  mother's 
grave.  Emily,  in  particular,  remained  long  kneeling 
with  her  face  bowed  down  over  the  monumental  stone 
which  recorded  the  name  and  age  of  the  deceased,  with 
the  customary  prayer  for  the  repose  of  her  soul.  Having 
indulged  our  grief  for  some  time  beside  the  narrow  house 
wherein  the  dearest  of  parents  awaits  the  resurrection, 
we  paid  a  short  visit  of  charity  to  the  grave  of  Mrs. 
Delany,  who  had  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh  some  few 
weeks  before. 

Shall  any  one  ever  read  this  story  who  has  \isited 
Cabra  Convent  in  the  summer  time  ?  Does  that  vision 
of  perfect  beauty  (the  still,  calm  beauty  of  a  convent) 
and  of  exquisite  neatness  rise  before  the  reader's  mem- 
ory, as  he  or  she  looks  through  blinding  tears,  as  I  do 
jftow,  on  the  page  of  my  simple  story  ?     Did  any  one 


/ 


•!*     -    -» 


I 
\ 


\* 


ELINOR    PRESTCr. 


63 


ever  see  a  richer  profusion  of  flowers,  and  especially 
roses — red,  blushing  roses  of  every  species ! — than  the 
good  nuns  of  Cabra  have  trained  around  their  home  1 
Even  the  far-foined  roses  of  the  vale  of  Cashmere,  albeit 
that  our  national  poet  describes  them  as 


«. 


roses  the  brightest  that  earth  ever  gave/' 


could  hardly  exceed  the  roses  of  Cabra  as  I  now  see 
them  bloom  through  the  softening  haze  of  memory. 
The  house  itself,  the  little  chapel,  the  dormitories,  the 
well-kept  grounds  and  nicely-pebbled  walks,  are  all  in 
perfect  keeping,  making  up  a  scene 

"  Where  holy  contemplation  loves  to  dwell." 

And  the  gentle,  graceful  inmates,  with  their  bland  at- 
tention to  visitors,  their  soft,  low  voices  all  attuned  to 
harmony — what  wonder  is  it  that  so  many  of  their  pupils 
return,  after  a  few  years  experience  of  the  bustling,  noisy, 
frothy  world,  to  seek  peace  and  happiness  in  that  earthly- 
paradise.  Sweet  Cabra ! — home  of  my  infant  years- 
home  of  my  sister's  heart — how  often  do  I  think  of  your 
"  hush'd  repose,"  and  ask  within  myself, 

Are  the  thrush  and  the  linnet  a-singing  there  jet, 
Are  the  roses  still  bright  over  Emily's  grave  ? 

ft 

But  where  was  T  ?  somewhere  about  our  starting  for 
the  convent.  Well!  we  left  Emily  thee  that  same  af- 
ternoon, and  on  the  following  morning  we  drove  out 
again  to  see  her  received  j  a  ceremony  which  is  one  of 


61 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


m 


the  most  touching  within  the  whole  range  of  the  Catholic 
ritual.  Never  had  our  Emily  looked  so  beautiful  as  she 
did  when,  having  exchanged  her  rich,  light-colored  satin, 
(worn  that  day  especially  for  contrast,)  she  returned  up 
the  aisle  habited  as  a  novice  of  the  Presentation  Order, 
and  bearing  a  lighted  taper,  her  small,  chiselled  features 
shaded  by  a  close  cap,  and  her  dark,  lustrous  eyes  hidden 
beneath  thnir  long  drooping  lashes.  My  father  wept  as 
his  eye  followed  her,  and  George  had  enough  to  do  "  to 
keep  in,"  as  he  told  us  after.  My  aunt  put  her  handker- 
chief to  her  eyes  more  than  once  with  that  graceful  deli- 
cacy of  touch  on  which  she  prided  herself  not  a  little. 
When  all  was  over,  and  we  on  our  way  home,  (Carry 
having  gone  back  some  half  dozen  times,  to  snatch  a 
last  kiss  from  Emily,)  Aunt  Kate  said  that  Emily  looked 
every  inch  a  Preston — "  she  really  did  !  "  said  she ;  "  and 
somehow  she  reminded  me  all  the  time  of  my  cousin 
Maude  Preston,  who  was  afterwards  abbess  of  an 
English  convent." 

"  Was  that  the  steward's  daughter,  Kate  1 "  said  my 
father,  somewhat  maliciously.  * 

"She  was  the  daughter  of  Lord  Wiltshire's  agent, 
Harry,"  said  my  aunt  very  stiffly,  as  she  bent  over  to 
arrange  Carry's  wayward  curls,  the  glossiest  and  fairest 
of  ringlets.  1  should  say  in  parenthesis,  that  Carry  had 
been  sent  for  on  the  previous  evening  in  order  to  witness 
Emily's  reception. 

"  Well,  whatever  she  was,"  said  my  father,  with  some- 
thing like  his  old  smile,  *'she  was  no  disgrace  to  the 
family  if  she  1  »oked  like  my  Emily. ^     And  again  the 


\ 


K^ 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


65 


tears  filled  his  eyes  and  chuked  his  \\  ice.     Ilis  paternal 
heart  was  full. 

To  this  proposition  my  aunt  eheerfiilly  assented,  and 
then  a  loiig  pause  ensued, — and  before  any  of  us  was 
aware  that  we  were  so  near  the  city,  the  carriage  rattled 
over  the  rough,  antique  pavement  of  Stoney-batter,  and 
on  through  the  rather  stylish  thoroughfares  of  Queen 
street  and  Blackhall  place.  Poor  Dublin  !  dear  Dub- 
lin !  how  familiarly  do  your  streets  and  squares  rise  be- 
fore me,  though  years  have  passed — long,  changeful 
years — since  I  trod  them  last.  But  who  that  knew  you 
as  I  knew  you  has  ever  forgotten  you  or  yours,  beloved 
metropolis  of  my  own  dear  land  ! — who  that  has  known 
them  can  ever  forget  the  warm,  loving  hearts,  and  buoy- 
ant spirits,  and  cultivated  taste,  that  made  your  sons 
and  daughters  the  best,  and  kindest,  and  mcst  fascinatir^ 
of  companions ! 


!^  *. 


60 


KLINOR   PRESTON. 


r 


CHAPTER   III, 


f.. 


■Ill 


HAT  very  evening  my  poor  aunt 
complained  of  a  bad  headache,  to 
k  which  she  was  by  no  means  subject. 
The  usual  simple  remedies  were  ap- 
plied, but  without  success.  All  the  night  she  kept 
moaning  and  turning  from  side  to  side ;  and  as  soon  as 
my  father  saw  her  in  the  morning,  he  went  off  himself 
for  the  family  doctor.  The  good  old  gentleman  was 
indeed  like  one  of  the  family,  having  been  for  some 
twenty  years  prescribing  for  its  members,  young  and 
old,  big  and  little.  "When  he  looked  at  my  aunt  he 
shook  his  head,  whereat  she  was  alarmed,  and  asked  if 
he  thought  there  was  any  danger. 

"  Why,  not  exactly  danger,  my  dear  Miss  Preston, 
but  there's  nothing  like  taking  things  in  time.  A  stitch 
in  time,  you  know,  saves  nine.  Please  to  hand  me  a 
basin,  Miss  Elinor,  and  an  old  ribbon  ?  " 

"  Why,  surely,  doctor,  you're  not  going  to  bleed  me— 
why,  I  never  was  bled  !  " 

"  The  more  reason  why  you  must  be  bled  now.  I 
Buppose  it's  a  bad  lave-fit  we  have,  Miss  Preston,  and 


t  ■ 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


m 


there's  nothing  better  for  that  than  to  draw  a  little  Mood. 
ft  cools  the  system,  you  see.  Tliank  you,  Miss  Elinor! 
— take  care  of  this  love,  my  dear! — it's  a  terril»Ie  thing 
indeed,  very  !  There,  now.  Miss  Preston — hold  out  your 
arm  !  Preston,  my  dear  fallow  !  hold  this  hasiii,  will 
you  1  Young  ladies,  go  into  the  next  room  a  minute — 
we'll  call  when  we  want  you.  Don't  look  so  frightened, 
Carry,  my  pet!  I'm  not  going  to  kill  your  aunt!  I'm 
not,  indeed ! — When  Tom  the  Great  failed  to  finish  her 
— though  between  him  and  his  leader  they  did  make  a 
murderous  attiiek  on  Iut  nerves  ! — but  when  they  failed, 
an  old  fogy  like  myself  needn't  try.  Go  i  long,  now, 
like  good  girls  !  Now,  Miss  Preston,  senio,; — ahem — 
ahem! — Miss  Kate  Preston,  let  us  see  what  a  i>oldi'.r 
you'll  be.  Keep  still  for  one  moment,  and  that's  all 
we'll  ask !" 

"  One  moment,  doctor ! "  said  my  aunt,  "just  .a© 
moment,  if  you  please  ! — I  fear  there  is  no  use  in  breed- 
ing, or  anything  else — Jenny,  the  housemaid,  saw  my 
fetch  after  dark  last  night !  " 

"And  what  if  she  did  1 " 

"And  we  have  had  sheets  on  the  candles  every  .jght 
this  month  past." 

"  Come,  come,  now !  Miss  Preston,  I'll  hear  no  more 
of  this  nonsense — 1  hope  to  dance  at  your  ;  Iding  yet ; 
80,  in  order  that  I  mayn't  be  disappointed,  nuld  out  your 
arm,  I  command  you  ! " 

When  Carry  and  I  were  summon  d  back  into  the 
room,  we  found  my  aunt  pale  as  a  ghost,  with  her  arm 
tightlv  bandaged,  and  the  doctor  preparing  a  sedative  at 
a  table  near  the  window. 


I   I 


{ 


68 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


!t 


K 

! 


"  What's  your  opinion,  doctor  *? "  said  my  /ather,  as  he 
accompanied  tho  doctor  down  stairs. 

"  Not  the  shadow  of  a  chance,  my  dear  sir.  At  least, 
I  fear  so.  She  has  a  complication  of  disorders  which 
can  hardly  fail  at  her  time  of  life  to  prove  fatal.  Still, 
we  must  try  to  keep  up  her  spirits — she  may  linger  for 
some  weeks  to  come."  ^ 

"And  that's  all  1 " 

"All !  my  good  friend ! — all  we  can  expect.  Good- 
morning  !  But  that's  true, — did  you  hear  that  the 
meeting  at  Clontarf  was  prevented  by  a  proclamation  %  " 

"  No,  indeed  !  I've  heard  nothing — haven't  seen  a 
paper  to-day  yet.     But  is  that  a  fact  %  '* 

"  Fact,  my  dear  sir !  positive  fact !  Here's  the 
Nation^''  taki'^g  it  from  his  pocket.  "  Good-bye !  good- 
bye !  I  have  an  urgent  case  in  Fitzwilliam  square  ! " 

Just  two  weeks  from  that  day,  my  poor  aunt  was 
carried  to  Glassnevin  Cemetery,  and  laid  beside  my 
mother.  During  her  illness  a  remarkable  change  had 
taken  place  in  her  habits  of  thought.  The  ruling  passion 
was  not  (in  her)  strong  in  death.  Her  pride  of  ancestry 
was  no  longer  the  same,  and  even  the  glory  of  that 
idolized  progenitor  who  figure^  in  the  grand  Catholic 
Confederation  of  1641,  had  waxed  dim  and  hazy  in  the 
far  regions  of  memory — albeit  that  it  was  wont  to  stand 
in  the  foreground  of  my  poor  aunt's  mind,  full  in  the 
light  of  her  vivid  imagination.  For  several  days  we 
had  carefully  avoided  any  allusions  to  the  possibility  of 
her  approaching  death,  believing  her  in  blissful  ignorance 
of  her  danger.     But  such  was  not  the  case.     In  the  deep 


1 


I 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


69 


stillness  of  one  dreary  night,  when  she  opened  her  eyes 
after  a  heavy  slumber  and  saw  my  father  dozing  in  a 
neighboring /ffw^C'MiV — he  had  pertinaciously  insisted  on 
"  sitting  up "  that  particular  night  with  me,  while  the 
nurse  slept — she  beckoned  me  to  approach,  and  said  in 
her  hollow,  husky  voice : 

"  You  shouldn't;  have  let  your  father  sit  np,  my  dear 
— poor  Harry  !  he  has  his  business  to  attend  to  to-mor- 
row. Didn't  I  hear  him  telling  the  doctor  this  evening 
that  the  place  at  the  Curragh  was  to  be  sold  ofl'some  of 
these  days  1 " 

"  1 — I  think  so,  aunt — but  don't — pray  don't — fret 
about  such  things." 

My  aunt  smiled  sadly.  "  No,  no,  my  dear !  I'm  be- 
yond fretting  now.  Time  was  when  I'd  have  worn  my- 
self off  my  feet  about  such  a  thing,  but  I  have  other 
matters  to  think  of  now.     I'm  going  fast,  my  dear  !  " 

"  Where  to,  Kate  ? "  cried  my  father,  waking  up  with 
a  start. 

"  To  the  other  world,  Harry,"  my  aunt  replied,  with 
solenm  earnestness. 

"  Nonsense,  Kate !  don't  talk  so  wildly — you  are 
worth  two  gone  people  yet." 

My  aunt  shook  her  head.  "It's  truth  I  tell  you, 
Harry — like  it  or  not.  Now  listen  to  me,  both  of  you. 
You  know  that  miniature  of  my  father,  set  with  jewels — 
Elinor,  my  child !  you  know  the  little  drawer  where  it 
is,  in  ray  bureau  ]  " 

"  Yes,  aunt—" 

"  But  what  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Kate,"  exclaimed 
my  father. 


i 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 

"  I'll  tell  you  that.  You  will  take  it  to-morrow  to 
Bomc  respectable  jeweller — mind,  I  say  respectable,  so 
that  he'll  not  choiit  you — and  get  the  setting  taken  off." 

"And  what  for,  pray  ?  " 

"Why,  I  want  you  to  have  a  decent  month's  mind — 
as  many  priests  as  you  can  get  together — and  you  must 
make  each  of  them  a  handsome  offering." 

My  father  cleared  his  voice  before  he  ventured  to  ask, 
"  Do  you  think  I'd  have  neglected  that,  Kate  1  Or  do 
you  suppose  I  can't  afford  it  without  defacing  a  Preston 
relic?  Why,  only  think," — he  endeavored  to  disguise 
his  real  feelings  beneath  an  appearance  of  levity, — "  such 
an  insult  offered  to  the  fiimily  would  be  quite  enough  to 
make  every  soul  of  them  start  from  their  graves. 
What !  sell  the  jewels  off  a  Preston's  portrait — and  that 
Preston  our  own  fiither!  Are  you  in  your  senses, 
Kate?" 

"  I  am,  Harry,  perfectly  sane,  I  assure  you.  It  is  now 
that  I  am  in  my  senses.  Within  sight  of  the  gates  of 
death,  all  worldly  distinctions  fade  away  and  are  no 
more  seen.  Standing  before  the  judgment-seat,  what  is 
a  Preston  more  than  any  one  else  ?  "  She  paused,  raised 
her  eyes  to  heaven,  and  her  lips  moved  as  in  inward 
prayer.  !My  father  and  I  were  both  awed  by  the  so- 
lemnity of  her  tone,  and  the  sudden  change  effected  in 
her  mind.  Neither  of  us  could  utter  a  word.  My  aunt 
went  on  :  "  Faith,  not  family,  will  avail  before  God,  and 
good  works  he  will  demand  froi.i  us,  not  honors  or  titles. 
Brother,  and  you,  my  precious  Elinor !  I  have  scanda- 
lized you,  it  may  be,  by  my  foolish  pride  of  family,  and 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


71 


many  a  cut  I  have  given  to  her  who  is  now,  I  trust,  in 
the  glory  of  hcfiven, — for  all  that,  I  ask  your  pardon, 
and  hope  you'll  remember  me  in  your  prayers  ;  indeed, 
my  heart  was  never  hard  or  cruel,  though  I  did  some- 
times act  as  if  it  was.  'lay  the  Lord  forgive  me  my 
sins ! " 

By  this  time  we  were  both  in  tears,  my  father  cover- 
ing his  face  with  his  hands,  and  weeping  like  a  very  child. 
My  aunt  endeavored  to  console  us  with  many  kind 
words,  but  firmly  insisted  on  having  my  father's  prom- 
ise to  dispose  of  the  setting  of  the  miniature  next  day, 
according  to  her  desire.  The  promise  was  reluctantly 
given. 

"And  now,  Elinor,"  said  my  aunt,  turning  with  a 
pleased  smile  to  me,  "  you  must  take  the  world  on  your 
shoulders  when  I'm  gone.  You're  very  young,  my 
child,  to  be  tied  down  to  the  care  of  a  house,  but  you 
must  do  your  duty — there's  no  one  else  for  it." 

My  answer  was  prevented  by  the  entrance  of  the 
nurse,  and  my  father  soon  after  left  the  room.  That 
was  our  last  conversation  with  poor  Aunt  Kate.  In  the 
course  of  the  following  day  she  became  delirious,  and 
so  continued  until  within  a  few  hours  of  her  death,  when 
she  had  barely  strength  to  take  leave  of  us  all.  One 
of  her  last  acts  was  to  have  all  the  servants  brouiiht  into 
the  room,  and,  although  she  could  hardly  speak,  she  held 
out  her  hand  to  each,  and  requested  them  one  and  all  to 
pray  for  her. 

*'  I  ask  your  pardon,"  she  said,  or  rather  tried  to  say, 
"if  I  ever  h«  rt  your  feelings  in  any  way." 


I 


72 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


A  chorus  of  lamentation  was  the  answer.  "Oh!  oh! 
oh !  Miss  Preston,  dear,  sure  you  never  did !  God 
knows  you  were  always  good  and  kind  to  us — ^barrin* 
the  bit  of  pride,  an'  sure  that  was  only  natural." 

"  May  the  Lord  receive  you  in  glory,  Miss  ! "  sobbed 
Larry  the  groom  ;  "  sure  it's  lonesome  we'll  be  without 
you.  An'  that's  jist  what  I  was  sayin'  to  your  old  fa- 
vorite, brown  Paudeen,  abroad  this  mornin'.  'Paudeen,' 
says  I  to  him,  *  the  ould  mistress — Lord  bless  me  !  what 
am  I  savin'  at  all — the  mistress — Miss  Kate,  I  mane — 
is  goin'  to  leave  us  ;  you'll  have  nobody  now,  Paudeen,' 
says  I,  *  except  poor  Larry  Monaghan  to  praise  your  fine 
paces.  Ah  then,  Miss,  dear  !  " — he  was  suddenly  inter- 
rupted by  my  father,  who,  placing  his  hand  on  his  mouth, 
pointed  towards  the  door.  My  aunt  had  swooned  away, 
and  we  all  thought  her  dead.  We  could  hear  the  other 
servants  administering  verbal  correction  to  poor  Larry 
in  subdued  whispers  as  they  descended  the  back  stairs, 
but  we  were  all  too  desolate  at  the  moment  to  relish  or 
even  notice  anything  ludicrous. 

My  aunt  was  not  dead,  but  she  died  that  evening,  and 
her  death  was,  as  it  were,  a  renewal  of  our  still  greater 
loss.  No  one  ever  dreamed  that  poor  Aunt  Kate  would 
be  so  mis5iHi  as  she  somehow  was.  The  very  eccen- 
tricities, or.  as  it  were,  singularities  of  her  character, 
which  had,  in  life,  knocked  against  every  one,  were  now 
only  rememVK?red  as  so  many  agreeable  traits  in  a  di«»- 
position  oth'Twise  warm  and  genial,  and  every  body 
seemed  tacitly  to  acknowledge  that  the  good  old  ladjr 
was  all  the  more  loveable  for  her  quaint,  old-fashioned 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


73 


ways,  and  little  harmless  foibles.  Peace  be  to  her  !— 
^she  was  herself  most  exemplary  in  her  charitable  re- 
membrance of  the  dead,  and  many  a  fervent  prayer  was 
offered  up  for  herself  when  it  came  to  her  turn  to  dis- 
appear from  mortal  eye.  During  the  three  nights  of 
the  wake,  the  house  was  crowded  with  friends  and  well 
wishers  of  almost  every  class.  Up  stairs,  my  father  and 
George  presided  over  the  hospitable  arrangements,  aided 
by  Maria  Delany  and  one  or  two  other  friends  of  the 
family,  while  the  world  below,  consisting  of  former  ser- 
vants, male  and  female,  the  various  tradesmen  and  work- 
ing-people, together  with  beggars  not  a  few,  were  duly 
entertained  by  Larry  and  his  wife  Nancy,  who  had  been 
our  cook  for  more  years  than  she  cared  to  own  now 
that  she  found  herself  in  the  decline  of  life.  The  Rosary 
was  said  both  above  and  below  about  the  middle  of  each 
night,  and  'it  was  a  thing  to  be  remembered,  the  sudden 
cessation  of  laugh  and  jest,  and  all  the  varied  sounds  of 
promiscuous  conversation,  followed  instantly  by  the 
deep,  full,  measured  tones  of  those  who  answered  the 
Rosary.  Above  and  below,  the  whole  house  was  simul- 
taneously filled  with  the  voice  of  prayer — prayer  oftered 
up  to  the  throne  of  grace  on  behalf  of  her  who  slept  so 
tranquilly  on  her  snowy  couch,  looking  fairer  and  much 
younger  than  we  had  seen  her  for  years  and  years. 

"  By  the  hokey,"  said  Larry,  when,  the  long  prayers 
being  ended,  he  rose  and  rubbed  his  stiffened  knees, — '*  By 
the  hokey,  Nancy,  we're  all  in  need  of  a  drop  after  that. 
It  was  as  much  as  ever  myself  could  do  to  keep  my  eyes 
open.  Sure  enough  there's  a  temptation  on  people  when 
7 


74 


ELINOR   FRESTOir. 


I 
I 


t^ 


they're  at  their  prayers.  I  think  the  ould  gentleman  below 
puts  lead  on  our  eyelids — bad  scran  to  him  for  a 
schemer ! — well !  here's  confusion  to  hira  at  any  rate, 
and  may  he  never  get  a  claw  on  any  one  we  wish  well ! 
Come  now,  all  of  you,  drink  that  toast — don't  be  mouthin' 
at  it.  Bedad  !  "  he  added,  smacking  his  lips,  as  he  set 
down  his  own  empty  glassy-emptied,  as  he  'said,  "  for 
the  sake  of  example  " — "  bedad,  now,  that's  what  I  call 
real  good  :  don't  be  afeared  of  it,  ladies,  it's  Kinahan'i 
malt,  you  know.     Mild  as  new  milk." 

Just  then  Larry  was  called  on  for  a  song,  and  he 
executed,  accordingly,  with  much  good  will,  if  not  with 
much  voice  or  skill,  one  of  the  stirring  ballads  of  the 
O'Connell  era,  then  in  its  last  and  most  gloomy  days. 
The  song,  though  lively  and  patriotic  in  itself,  struck  a 
plaintive  chord  in  the  hearts  of  all  within  hearing,  for 
times  had  changed,  and  the  great  chief  who  had  so  long 
wielded  the  nation's  energies  was  now  the  occupant  of  a 
prison — the  victim  of  English  jealousy.  Before  Larry 
had  finished  the  last  stanza,  lying  back  in  his  chair  with 
legs  outstretched  and  eyes  upraised  towards  the  ceiling, 
he  was  interrupted  by  several  voices :  "  Hut,  tut,  Larry  ! 
what  sort  of  a  song  is  that  you're  givin'  us  1 "  "  Sure 
people's  hearts  are  heavy  enough  and  black  enough  too, 
without  you  remindin'  us  of  days  that'll  may-be  never 
come  again.'*  "  Can't  you  give  us  a  touch  of  love  or 
murder,  Larry?"  "Something  sorrowful  in  honor  of 
the  ould  madam  !  "  This  last  call  was  from  Susy,  the 
apple- woman,  who  was  thire  in  her  glory. 

All  this  and  more  was  heard  distinctly  up  stairs,  the 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


75 


doors  being  all  open  on  such  an  occasion  f,s  that  and 
many  a  smile  was  exchanged,  and  many  a  curt,  sly  re- 
mark, apropos  to  what  Wiis  passing  in  the  kitchen. 
Various  little  by -plays  were  also  going  on  among  "  the 
quality,"  not  the  least  amusing  being  Arthur  Dillon's 
persevering  attentions  to  Miss  Delany,  who  still  "gave 
him  the  cold  shoulder,"  as  some  of  the  company  whis- 
pered to  each  other. 

Thus  did  the  three  nights  pass  away,  the  three  long 
nights  that  would  have  been  so  dismal,  the  loneliness  of 
death  half  removed  by  the  cheerful  presence  of  so  many 
cordial,  sympathizing  friends.  On  the  morning  of  the 
funeral,  a  temporary  altar  w^as  fitted  up  in  the  front 
parlor,  and  my  aunt's  spiritual  Director  offlred  up  the 
Holy  Sacrifice  for  the  repose  of  her  soul,  in  presence 
of  the  crowd  who  had  come  to  attend  the  funeral. 

That  was  the  last  great  funeral  that  ever  took  place 
in  our  family.  From  that  time  the  st\r  of  our  fortune 
was  on  the  wane,  and  the  number  of  our  friends  began 
to  diminish  wonderfully.  Carry  was  sent  to  Cabra  for 
her  education,  and  what  little  housekeeping  was  to  be 
done,  devolved  on  my  inexperienced  self.  The  common 
herd  of  visitors  had  deserted  us,  and  so  ne  of  our  best 
and  truest  friends  were  scattered  hither  and  thither  by 
the  wayward  course  of  human  affairs.  Oiio  was  sent  as 
consul  to  the  south  of  Europe,  others  v/ere  attending 
parliamentary  duties  in  London,  and  one  or  two  were, 
like  ourselves,  gradually  sinking  in  the  social  scale. 
For  them  the  care  of  their  own  broken  fortunes  was 
more  than   suiHcient.     Many  an  ancient  and  honored 


76 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


J* 


fiimily  fell  from  its  high  estate  in  Ireland,  during  those 
years  of  commercial  depression — that  dismal  lull  which 
followed  the  extinction  of  the  great  Repeal  movement, 
and  ushered  in  the  Famine.  It  was  a  time  of  hopeless, 
joyless,  public  despondency ;  and  every  family  in  the 
kingdom,  from  high  to  low,  shared  more  or  less  in  the 
general  depression. 

It  was  just  about  the  time  when  the  greatest  of  living 
Irishmen — the  mighty  enchanter  whose  wand  had  waked 
all  Ireland  from  the  sleep  of  ages,  set  out, — a  frail  and 
drooping  and  broken-hearted  old  man, — on  a  pilgrimage 
of  love  to  the  City  of  the  Apostles.  The  metropolitan 
city  w  as  overshadowed  with  gloom,  and  the  hearts  of  its 
usually  gay  inhabitants  were  chilled  and  heavy.  Few 
there  were  who  escaped  the  contagion,  but  of  that  num- 
ber was  our  lively  friend  Maria  Delany.  Her  father 
had  died  the  year  before,  and  it  was  found,  contrary  to 
all  expectation,  that  his  affairs  were  in  anything  but  a 
prosperous  condition.  Maria,  so  far  from  being  an 
heiress,  was  found  almost  penniless  when  the  estate  was 
wound  up ;  and  yet  the  light-hearted  girl  was  as  gay  and 
mercurial  as  ever,  saving  the  natural  sorrow  for  her 
father's  death.  And,  peace  be  to  his  ashes!  worthy 
Mr.  Delany  was  no  better  than  he  should*  be  to  his  wife 
and  daughter.  He  w^as  a  hard,  shrewd  man — a  regular 
skinflint,  who  had  loved  money  "not  wisely,  but  too 
well  " — a  fact  which  made  the  final  announcement  as  lo 
the  state  of  his  affairs  one  of  the  greatest  enigmas  that 
had  f<»r  years  come  before  the  Dublin  public.  Poor 
Maria  los.  ground  amazingly  in  the  world   of  fashioa 


ELINOR    PRBSTOir. 


77 


It  is  true  she  kept  herself  aloof  from  it  ^together,  oat 
of  respect  to  the  memory  of  her  parents ;  but  under  other 
circumstances,  it  would  have  pursued  her  into  any  re- 
tirement she  might  have  chosen.  Ilud  she  still  been  an 
heiress,  even  though  Mahomet  did  not  go  to  the  moun- 
tain, the  mountain  would  have  gone  to  Mahomet ;  but 
the  attraction  no  longer  existed,  and,  for  all  her  fashion- 
able friends  and  quondam  admirers  cared,  "  that  dear, 
sweet,  lively  creature.  Miss  Delany,"  might  have  bo- 
taken  herself  to  Jericho,  or  any  other  out-of-the-way 
place  where  her  deep  mourning  would  notciist  a  spectral 
shade  on  their  worldly  pleasures.  She  had  gijnc  to 
board  in  a  private  family  out  at  Rathmines,  and  report 
said  that  she  was  actually  teaching  for  her  living.  Poor 
Maria !  That  report  set  the  seal  on  her  reprobation, 
and  she  was  consigned  to  the  region  of  utter  darkness, 
where  the  smiles  of  fashion  never  penetrated.  There 
were  still  one  or  two  families  of  her  former  friends  with 
whom  Maria  kept  up  an  intimacy,  and  ours  was  one  of 
these. 

The  year  of  Maria's  mourning  had  just  expired,  when 
who  should  pop  into  our  drawing-room  one  fine  sum- 
mer's day  but  my  lady  herself,  and  who,  of  all  others, 
should  she  have  with  her,  but  Arthur  Dillon,  who,  to  do 
him  justice,  looked  more  the  man  than  wc  had  ever 
seen  him.  The  moustache  had  disappeared  fiom  his 
smooth  upper  lip,  and  his  features  seemed  actually  to 
have  attained  fuller  and  more  masculine  dinuiisions. 
We  could  hardly  believe  our  eyes,  and  Maria  laughed 
at  our  visible  bewilderment  till  the  tears  ran  down  her 


78 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


I 


cheeks      Dillon,  too,  smiled  in  a  way  that  neither  Carry 
nor  I  could  understind. 

*'  Do  you  know  what  brought  us  here  this  morning  ?  " 
said  Maria,  at  length,  when  she  had  succeeded  in  com- 
posing her  features. 

**1  really  can't  tell,"  I  replied,  "but  I  should  think  it 
was  something  very  funny." 
/  *  *'  So  it  is,  child — isn't  it,  Arthur  ? — now  open  your 

*  Y      ®*rs  wide,   Elinor,  and   you,  ma  petite  Carry ! — we've 
*         come  to  ask  you  to  our  wedding  ! " 

"  To  your  wedding  !  " 

"  Just  so :  we're  to  be  married  next  week— on 
Tuesday,  I  believe.  Why  do  you  stare  so,  you  strange 
girl  ?  don't  you  think  I  have  kept  this  poor  youth  long 
en«nigh  in  suspense  1  There's  no  knowing  what  he 
might  do  if  I  tampered  longer  with  his  feelings — eh, 
Arthur  ? " 

"  Well,  but  Maria — I  never  thought " 

"Of  course  you  didn't — who  asked  you  to  think  any- 
thing about  it  ?  Now  listen  to  me,  girls ! — we're  going 
to  have  the  affair  very  private — very  private,  indeed. 
There  will  be  none  invited  but  your  family — and  old 
O'Shaughnessy  of  course,  on  George's  account — the  Dil 
Ions — and  that's  all — isn't  it,  Arthur  ?  " 

"  Just  as  you  like,  my  dear  Maria  ! — I  have  told  you 
80  repeatedly." 

There  was  an  unnatural  tremor  in  poor  Arthur's  voice, 
and  a  flush  on  his  cheek  that  showed  his  inward 
agitation.  The  fact  is,  he  seemed  as  one  in  a  pleasing 
dream,  and  ei  dentlj'  feared  to  speak  or  move  lest  the 


ELIKOR    PREBTOK. 


70 


Dlissful  illusion  should  vanish;  that  !Maria  should  ever 
8pcak  rationally  or  condescendingly  to  him — to  him  who 
had  so  long  been  the  butt  of  her  koen  sarcasm  and 
laughtir-loving  propensity;  above  all,  that  she  should 
smile  graciously  on  his  year-long  suit,  and  actually  per- 
mit him  to  hope,  was  something  so  very  unexpected 
that  steadier  minds  tbm  Dillon's  might  have  been 
staggered.  And  Maria  lorded  it  over  him  with  a  ven- 
geance, but  still  in  that  easy,  good-natured  way  that  no 
one  could  resent,  and  he  least  of  all.  The  best  of  it 
was,  that  she  drew  very  freely  on  Arthur's  purse  while 
making  her  preparations.  It  is  true  he  gave  her  in  the 
first  place  a  check  for  a  considerable  sum,  but  she 
managed  to  dispose  of  it  with  so  much  ease  that  even  1 
could  not  help  expressing  my  surprise,  when,  taking 
me  into  another  room  on  that  particular  morning,  she 
told  me  of  it. 

"Why,  Maria,  you  have  not  spent  all  that^  surely?" 

"Bless  )'our  heart,   my   dear!    to  be  sure   I  have. 

Arthur  can  well  afford  it.     Now,  aren't  you  dying  to 

know  how  all  this  came  to  pass  in  so  short  a  time  ?  "     I 

ackn(»\vl(^dgcd  my  curiosity. 

"Well !  you  know,  or  must  know,  that  of  all  the  can- 
didates who  sought  my  hand  before  the  time  of  my 
father's  death — may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  him  ! 
Arthur  Dillon  was  the  only  one  that  persevered  through 
thick  and  thin.  All  the  others  fairly  deserted—yes, 
©very  soul  of  them ;  and  what  am  I  to  do  ?  Unless  I  make 
up  my  mind  '  to  die  an  old  maid,'  as  the  song  says,  why, 
I  must  e'en  take  what  I  can  get.     Besides,"  she  added. 


ILINOR   IREBTOir. 


^      1. 


lit      '** 


■till  in  the  same  bantering  tone,  "  I  have  been  so  long 
teasing  the  poor  fellow  who  clung  to  mo  so  pertina- 
ciously, that  it  hcciiine  a  second  nature  to  me,  and  I  reully 
never  could  get  along  without  him.  Poor  Arthur !  "  shu 
looked  at  him  as  she  said  this,  and  her  eyes,  moist  with 
tears,  told  of  a  much  deeper  feeling  in  his  regard  than 
the  levity  of  her  speech  denoted.  I  could  not  then  un- 
derstimd  all  this,  but  I  have  often  thought  of  it  sinco-^ 
and  little  wonder  it  was  that  the  poor  fellow's  devotion, 
surviving  fortune,  position,  nay !  youth  itself,  should 
touch  a  heart  so  warm  and  generous  as  Maria's.  She 
had  learned,  by  dear-bought  experience,  that  his  foppery 
and  apparent  egotism  went  no  further  than  the  surface, 
and  that  there  were  qualities  rare  and  precious  hidden 
far  down  in  the  depths  of  his  heart,  which  few  gave  him 
credit  for  possessing  at  all. 

My  father  was  both  amused  and  pleased  when  ho 
heard  the  news.  "  Well ! "  said  he,  "  if  that  isn't  a 
strange  fancy  of  Maria's  she  never  had  one,  and  we  have 
seen  her  have  a  reasonable  number  of  odd  fancies.  Still 
I  think  she  might  do  worse.  The  Dillons  arc  well  off, 
and  poor  Arthur  may  get  to  to  more  of  a  man  when  ho 
has  a  sensible  wife.  That  shaving  of  his  upper  lip  is  a 
good  sign.     He'll  come  to  his  senses,  never  fear." 

On  the  following  Tuesday  Maria  Dclany  1:  ecame  tho 
wife  of  Arthur  Dillon,  and  Carry  and  I  were  bridesmaids. 
The  wedding  was  held  at  the  Dillon  mansion,  and  to  do 
the  old  couple  justice,  they  were  as  cordially  attentive  to 
the  bride  as  though  she  could  have  brought  thousands  to 
the  family  coffers.     The  wedding-party  was  small  but 


ILINOR  PRlSTOir. 


81 


we  I  chosen,  and  we  had  n  right  merry  day  of  it.  We 
all  drovo  out  to  Bray,  and  lunched  d  la  champetre  with 
in  sight  of  the  blue  sea-wave.  Ileturning  to  town  for  a 
six  oVlock  dinner,  we  found  Mr.  O'Shaughncssy  in  luxu- 
rious possession  of  an  arm-chair  near  one  of  the  windows, 
and  the  old  gentleman  was  apparently  in  excellent 
humor.  According  as  the  dinner-hour  approached  his 
hilarity  seemed  to  increase,  until  it  actually  reached  a 
state  of  effiTvesccnce.  It  seemed  strange  to  us  that  he 
kept  watching  the  entrance  of  the  few  additional  guests 
with  almost  feverish  impatience,  and  when  at  last  Mrs. 
Dillon,  senior,  said,  **  Well,  now  !  I  believe  that's  all !  " 
Shaugh  (as  he  wjis  technically  called)  started  up  and 
thrust  his  right  hand  into  his  vest  pocket  with  a  very 
oratorical  air.  .       -t^         ▼" 

"  Are  you  sure  you  expect  no  one  else,  Mrs.  Dillon  ?  " 
he  asked,  abruptly. 

"  Quite  sure,  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy." 

"  Well !  in  that  case,"  said  the  man  of  law,  "  we  have 
a  little  business  to  transact." 

"But  bless  my  soul,  Shaugh  !  "  put  in  my  father,  "is 
this  a  proper  time  for  business  1  why,  man,  dinner  will 
be  on  the  t'tble — I  hope — in  five  minutes." 

"Even  so — business  can*t  wait,  as  the  saving  is. 
Arthur  Dillon  !  you  are  aware  that  I  was  legal  adviser 
to  the  late  Mr.  Delany — rest  his  soul. in  peace  !  " 

"I  know  it,  sir,"  said  Arthur,  looking  very  sheepish. 
He  evidently  feared  that  something  bad  was  coming. 
He  looked  at  his  father,  and  his  father  looked  at  him. 
Maria  and  the  lawyer  too,  exchanged  glances,  and  both 


1^, 


* 


> 


ft  t , 


11 


82 


ELINOR   PRSBTUN. 


smiled.  Curiosity  was  depicted  as  plainly  as  could  be  on 
every  flice,  but  no  one  spoke  until  the  lawyer,  having  leis- 
urely surveyed  us  all  through  his  gold  spectacles  as 
though  enjoying  our  surprise  by  anticipation,  took  from 
his  pocket  a  very  legaMooking  document  which  he  said 
he  would  read  for  our  special  enlightenment.  This  docu- 
ment proved  to  be  the  will  of  the  late  Mr.  Deluny,  which, 
after  various  legacies,  and  a  bequest  to  his  parish  church, 
secured  to  his  daughter  Maria  the  sum  of  ten  thousand 
pounds,  being  the  residue  of  his  fortune. 

Various  exclamations  of  surprise  escaped  from  all 
present.  People  could  hardly  relieve  their  ears.  As 
for  Arthur  Dillon,  he  looked  anything  at  all  but  exhilara- 
ted, and  I  really  believe  that  he  was  sorry  to  find  Maria 
still  an  heiress.  Mr.  Dillon,  senior,  looked  very  hard  at 
the  lawyer,  shrewd  man  of  business  as  he  was,  being 
much  inclined  to  view  the  whole  as  a  practical  joke,  but 
the  lawyer  nodded  to  him  in  a  friendly,  confidential  way, 
as  though  he  had  said,  "  All  right,  old  friend  !  "  Where- 
upon the  new-made  father-in-law  took  out  his  snuff-box 
and  handed  it  to  his  legal  friend,  with  a  countenance  ex- 
pressive of  unlimited  satisfaction.  Maria  herself,  tired, 
as  she  said,  of  being  stared  at,  drew  me  after  her  to  the 
deep  recess  of  a  window,  telling  Arthur,  in  a  very  author- 
itative manner,  to  stay  where  he  was.  The  discomfited 
bridegroom  was  fain  to  smile,  and  resume  the  seat  from 
which  he.  had  risen  with  unusual  alacr'ty.  Maria's  de- 
parture was  the  signal,  it  appeared,  for  unbridling  the 
company's  tongues,  for  there  was  an  instant  clatter  of 
voices,  each  one  giving  vent  to  his  or  her  surprise  in  all 


ELINOR   PRESTON, 


83 


the  various  notes  of  the  gamut.  Maria  pressed  the  arm 
whieh  she  had  drawn  within  her  own,  and  whispered  me 
to  listen.  "I  have  just  left  them  to  t^ilk  the  wonder 
out,"  said  she;  "and  besides,  I  couldn't  have  kept  from 
laughinjT  another  minute,  they  were  all  in  such  a  comical 
sttite  of  bewilderment.    Only  listen,  Nell !  " 

**  So  Dolany's  money  was  safe  and  sound  after  all ! " 
said  one. 

"  Small  thanks  to  it  for  that,"  said  another ;  "  never 
was  monev  bi-tter  taken  care  of.  Not  a  man  in  Dublin 
knew  the  value  of  a  penny  better  than  the  same  Luke 
Delanv." 

"  I  never  cottld  understand,"  cried  a  third,  "  how  Luke's 
affairs  came  to  be  in  a  bad  way,  so  this  makes  it  all 
straight." 

"  But  what  a  sly  trick  it  was  for  Miss  Delany  to  play. 
Didn't  she  do  us  all  nicely — herself  and  Shaugh?  I  tell 
you  what  it  is,  Shaugh,  I  never  thought  you  had  so  much 
mischief  in  you ! " 

The  man  of  parchment  chuckled  in  a  way  peculiar  to 
himself  "  TLa  !  ha!  ha! — haven't  spent  fivc-and-twenty 
years  about  the  Four  Courts  for  nothing,  Mrs.  Arthur 
Dillon  very  extravagant  in  hor  purchases — eh,  ladies?— 
drawing  too  freely  on  the  matrimonial  purse  that  was  to 
be! — ha!  ha! — well  for  Master  Arthur  he  didn't  keep 
the  strings  too  close — if  he  had,  self  and  client  wouldn't 
have  dropped  in  this  golden  luck-penny.  A  useftil  lesson, 
we  hope,  to  all  suitors  for  ladies'  hands  in  generr.l !  Free 
and  easy,  gents,  free  and  easy — ^that's  the  way  to  win 
them  ;  shave  the  upper  lip  like  Christian  men,  and  don't 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


I 


!    1 


affect  fiircign  manners,  which  interpreted  means  pujv 
pyisin." 

"Dinner  on  the  table!"  said  the  butler,  throwing 
open  the  door  with  an  official  jerk,  Mr.  Dillon,  senior, 
instantly  made  his  bow  to  Maria  under  the  curtains,  my 
father  offered  his  arm  to  her  graciously-smiling  mother- 
in-law,  while  Arthur  took  my  hand  with  something  of 
his  former  affectation,  and  down  we  marched  to  dinner, 
the  others  pairing  off  according  to  the  good  pleasure  of 
the  gentlemen. 

During  the  time  of  dinner  Arthur  was  very  rational 
indeed.  It  was  only  once  or  twice  that  he  made  a  little 
excursion  into  the  land  of  fable,  but  Pegasus  was  now 
bridled,  and  had  his  wings  clipped.  Maria  had  become 
an  interested  party,  and  instead  of  drawing  Arthur  out, 
as  was  her  wont  in  times  past  for  the  amusement  of  the 
company,  she  now  adroitly  turned  the  conversation  into 
another  cliannel.  Many  of  the  company  saw  her  object, 
and  cheerfully  assisted  in  carrying  it  out,  so  that  Arthur 
escaped  with  flying  colors. 

"  Well !  "  said  Maria  to  me,  when  we  found  ourselves 
snugly  seated  together  in  a  corner  of  the  large  drawing- 
room,  shaded  by  a  high-backed  chair, — "  Well !  don't 
you  think  Arthur  is  improving  already  1 " 

*'I  believe  he  is,"  1  replied,  with  a  smile. 

"  Aye  !    but  why  do  you  laugh  ?— depend  upon  it, 
there  is  a  jewel  within  that  casket,  and  with  God's  help 
I  mean  to  bring  it  out  in  all  its  native  lustre.     The  little 
crust  of  affectation  must  and  shall  disappear." 
'   "  May  God  assist  you  !  you  have  done  much  already  !" 


1 


1 

I 


ELINOR   PRESTOir. 


85 


"  God  tvill  assist  me — I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  Arthur 
has  an  excellent  heart,  and,  what  is  a  still  great<*r  se- 
curity, he  has  a  profound  reverence  for  religion.  At  the 
worst  of  times  no  one  ever  heard  him  speak  lightly  of 
anything  connected  with  religion.  Had  such  been  the 
case,  he  had  never  been  my  husband,  fur,  after  all,  there 
is  no  trusting  man  or  woman  who  has  not  a  proper  re- 
spect for  the  things  that  are  of  God." 

Just  then  I  was  summoned  to  sing  "The  Light  of 
Other  Days,"  then  and  for  long  after  one  of  the  reigning 
favorites  in  the  arena  of  vocal  music.  Alas !  that  such 
songs  should  ever  become  "antiquated,"  or  banished 
from  the  drawing-room  at  the  bidding  of  that  addle- 
headed  monster — that  pretentious  fool — in  modern  par- 
lance yclept  fashion  !  It  seems  to  me  that  in  this  re- 
spect the  Dubliners  are  far  ahead  of  many  others.  Songs 
there  retain  their  hold  on  the  heart,  and  wield  dominion 
over  the  charmed  circle  more  in  proportion  to  their 
merit  both  as  regards  poetry  and  music;  and  you  will 
seldom  find  a  noble  song  with  a  nobler  air  dismissed 
the  Dublin  salons,  and  huddled  away  in  comers  among 
old  neglected  music,  for  the  sole  reason  that  it  is  "  too 
old;" — the  very  words  are  suggestive  of  some  lisping 
daiidy,  or  some  singing-bird  in  petticoats  called  "  a 
musical  young  lady,"  neither  of  them  naving  brains 
enough  or  taste  enough  to  appreciate  true  p<jetry  or  true 
music.  The  citizens  of  Dublin  can,  as  I  have  said,  relish 
a  good  song,  even  though  it  be  none  of  the  newest ;  and 
yet,  stran  ge  to  say,  there  is  no  city  (not  even  excepting 
London  or  Paris)  whose  judgment  is  more  highly  re« 
8 


66 


ELINOR   PKESTOK. 


«  ft 


spected  l»y  the  inuslcal  artists  of  every  age.  It  is,  I  b^ 
lieve,  au  iiKlisjuitable  fact,  that  the  singer  or  the  actor 
who  fiiids  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  Dublin  critics,  irj  pretty 
sure  to  succeed  in  any  capital  either  of  Europe  or 
America,  All  this  apropos  to  songs  and  ballads,  con 
necting  links  as  they  are  between  diftcrent  periods  of 
existence : 

•*OId  sonfTs!  old  sonj^a!— bow  well  I  sung 
Your  varied  airs  with  childish  touRuc, 
When  breath  and  spirit,  free  anti  hght, 
Caroll'd  away  fVoni  m^rn  till  night. 


"Old  sonps!  old  soncjs  —how  thick  yo  come, 
Telling  of  childhood  and  of  home, 
When  home  forged  links  in  memory's  chain 
Too  strong  for  time  to  break  in  twain, 
When  home  was  all  that  home  should  be, 
And  held  tht  vast,  rich  world  for  me  I 


•*Old  songs !  old  songs ! — how  ye  bring  back 
The  fairest  paths  in  mortal  track ! 
I  see  the  merry  circle  spread, 
Till  watchman's  notice  warned  to  bed ; 
When  one  rude  boy  would  loiter  near, 
And  whisper,  in  a  well-pleased  ear, — 
•  Com«*,  mother,  sit  before  we  go, 
And  sing  Juhu  Anderson,  my  Jo/ 


i 


•*Thc  ballad  still  is  breathing  round, 
But  other  voices  yield  the  sound; 
Strangers  possess  tiie  household  room, 
The  mother  lietli  in  the  tomb. 
And  that  blithe  boy  who  praised  her  song 
81eef*eth  as  soundly  and  as  long. 


ELINOR    PRESTON.  97     ' 

*'  Old  8on!<8 !  old  songs  ! — I  sliould  not  sigh— 
Jo3a  of  the  earth  on  earth  must  die ; 
But  spectral  forms  will  sunietiines  start 
Withiti  the  caverns  of  the  heart,  / 

Ilauntinj^  the  lone  and  darkened  cell 
Where,  warm  in  life,  thej  used  to  df^l. 

• 
"  Hope,  youth,  love,  homo — each  hnmko  tie 
That  binds  we  know  not  how  or  wh)  — 
All,  all  that  to  the  soul  belongs, 
Is  closely  mingled  with  'old  songs.' 
All !  who  shall  say  the  ballad  line 
That  stirs  the  soul  is  not  divine! 
And  where  the  heart  that  would  not  dare 
To  j)lace  such  songs  beside  the  prayer  I  " 

—  Old  Xt  ?9pap«r. 


It  might  have  been  a  month  after  Marin's  marriage, 
when  my  father  one  night  asked  me,  as  he  often  did,  to 
phiy  and  sing  tt»  him.  lie  drew  his  chair  cU)se  to  the  piano, 
and  phic'ing  Carry  on  an  ottoman  at  his  knee,  he  said, 
"  Now,  George,  take  your  flute  and  accompany  Elinor 
— it's  some  time  since  I  have  heard  you  phiy  together. 
I  don't  know  what's  coming  over  me  at  all — I  just  feel 
as  if  my  heart  was  made  of  lead.  But,  Ood  help  me  ! 
sure  it's  little  wonder  I'd  be  duU  .'uid  d(»wn-hearted ! 
Go  on,  children  ! — give  me  somethin^^  livrly.  Carry, 
my  pet !  sit  ov  r  close,  and  lay  your  hi'a<l  i>\\  my  knee. 
Perhaps  it's  not  long  you'll  have  me — "  and  then  he 
sighed,  and  fondly  stroked  the  silken  tresses  that  hung 
dishevelled  over  his  knee.  George  and  I  exihanged 
glances,  for  we  had  just  been  saying  to  each  other  a  little 
before  that  there  must  be  something  ever  us,  our  heart* 


88 


ELINOR   PRESTOW. 


were   all   so   henvv      <5f;ii 

Ge..go  darted  at'oL  in  o  a  ^h    "rT'^'   ^  '""«''.  -""J 

-<lden,,  stopped  br^fa,    ^S  /"'"'''^-     ""^  *- 

said  heT'-lT'ter?'  """u'"  ""'^  '""''««  >"«  worse » 
WM;ore.':iC.Ll&"^'^^">--- 

ping,  said,  in  a  whisper  "'.aT;.  ^k' '''''''  '"'""-'"'^  ^'"P" 

soundly,  «o  voundly,  indeed    hah  ""■'   ''^  *'  ^P' 

I  leant  ov,.-  hUn  to  see  whth  V  ^  "  '""""S"  ^"'P^k 
--  .  ...0.  ..e,;.ved  to  find  thltl  ?;'"'/""'•'«''•  ""'' 
arose,  k.  ,.,,,  ,„^  2hl.!         ''•     ^"'■'•^  "'^'""t'y 

gone  for  ever  from  on.  7,1    ,         '^"^^  ''"'^  ''""  was 
'oving  hearts  only  1  If'"  ^  '=»«'  »"1  "oting,  a, 
on  features  but  1 'te7;o t^'"  ,1  "'"  ""^  ^^o- 
While  «-o  were  Jt  ,0'^.        ""''  '^^■'■•^''  "»^  P-'^^d. 

beon   droan,in«,  yJs  5     ""?"     '   ^«"«ve  1  have 

her  that  night  in  her  o,!,J.IocriL    . '  "^  "''  "^  '"^ 
-"«  Tc.rosa  wanted  me-L onflT  "^  ''"'""^^  =  ^^e  told 

'--^"h   d..ad   and    in     heir   1         ''  '"^  *""  '  '"•«"''  they 

^--?-d,  ,.y;:'XeT;\;r.'"'^^-^^^^^ 

/e,    1    tnought  ivHtc  had   the 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


Preston  arms  painted  right  on  the  fnn  t  of  ;i  certain 
mitre-like  head-dress  which  she  wore — ha  !  ha  !  I  sup- 
pose she  does  keep  up  fainily-stite  in  the  other  world— 
if  she  can  she  will,  at  any  rate  ! " 

This  ludicrous  idea  of  my  poor  aunt's  In'ing  armori'.My 
eml)lazoned  in  the  world  of  spirits  gave  us  an  opportu- 
nity  of  echoing  my  father's  faint  laugh,  which  we  did 
with  forced  gaycty. 

"By  the  hvc,  children  !"  said  my  father,  "  is  not  this 
the  very  chair  in  which  we  found  poor  Kat«^,  in  her 
spectral  costume  1  "  George  answered  in  thc^  allirmative, 
whereupon  my  father  rose,  and  said,  with  a  sigh,  as  he 
moved  towards  the  door, — 

"It  will  soon  have  other,  and,  it  may  bo,  sadder 
memories  connected  with  it.  Don't  part  with  it,  chil- 
dren, do  as  you  m,iy  ! — Nonsense,  now !  what  do  you 
cry  for?  Upon  my  word!  you're  three  great  babies, 
nothing  better !  because  your  old  father  is  in  low  spirits, 
you  must  all  be  in  low  spirits  too.  Fie  !  fie  !  George  ! 
you'll  be  head  of  the  h«»use  some  of  these  days,  and  this 
is  a  poor  specimen  of  your  manhood!  I  think  we  had 
all  better  go  to  bed — but  stay,  Elinor!  go,  like  a  good 
girl,  and  get  Nancy  to  make  me  a  tum])lcr  of  punch — 
sweet,  strong,  and  warm,  you  know.  Bring  it  up  to  my 
room,  and  I'll  take  it  after  I  lie  dov»'n.  I  feel  as  though 
I  wanted  something  to  warm  mc,  and  it's  strange,  too, 
f«)r  the  weather  is  warm  enough — I  suppose  it's  the  bo- 
ginning  of  old  age!"  lie  smiled  fiintly,  and  George 
tried  hard  to  get  up  a  laugh,  but  it  would  not  do.  He 
felt  more  like  crying,  as  he  afterwards  tuid  me.  And 
yet  poor  George  used  to  be  die  merriest  soul  alive. 


w 


SLINOR    PRKSTON. 


please  God!  we'Il'go  „  dl  E„-|"'''  "'"■'"-'•o-, 

would  do  n.v  hrart  eood!  '°  Clo„gowe._I  think  it 

once  „.o.e.  Goi  S'^;::  f '"^^''■"-"  H-ther 
faint  response  I  hastll^Tf  ^  ^"l  ""'  ^^t"""uring  a 
w.^.d  no' longer  C^S  tf"'["^  "^ '«'" 
my  father  had  ever  asked  n,    f  "'  ""^  ''"'*■  "me 

•inee  the  day  of  my  first  co2n  '"'"^  '""'  '""'-"'  '^"^t. 
Ja%.eu.ar  way  i  ^aT;'^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  "^  ^''^  it  in  a' 
»«d  never  been  what  is  eaWedf.r     ''"■'-■''''•'•     "" 

faster,  and  was  always  a  stout  /r  ."'"""'  «"<* 
dogmas  when  assailed  i'n  his  pZjf'T  "'  '^""'"'"' 
firmly  attached  to  our  holv  TT'  *""' "'  ''«"'•'. 

either,  from  professing  his  suLt'  """^"''  ^'"•'»"'', 

««"  he  was  «.r  fro.n  teilg  pT XV^-l^  ^'"-'> !  «>ut 
request,  made,  too,  with  unmfs  k  b  '^'"•"".'"•' "'"^  ""^ 
me  very  strangely.  Loni.  IT  ,  '""^"h:  affected 
awake  thinking^.f'^^he  soTrowful".  ""'"  '"  "><  ^  '=»/ 
father,  and  p^,,,^,  with  a  :;  ntfrr  ^'''^  '"  '"^ 
w>H  of  God,  wo  mi..ht  m,t  l    T  "^  "  "ere  the 

P^^nt-      Vain,   vai^,  1     '         'r'""'*"''  <'''  '""•  ""ly 

a«'eep,Im„stL.ve:ie;'on;:„7  .  ''''"  '  '"  «"' 
room  was  full  of  bright  sulh  u^  *""""^'  ''"^  the 
•tart-roused  by  a  wild  sh  '"  T.'"^"  '  ««<"'«  with  a 
tie  house.  Carry  was  gone  ;;"""■''  '"""^^  ""-""gh 
""defined  fear  was  f"  r  hfr      Th'"  '"^  '''"'  """  '"^  ««' 

•-«-.srhu,riedounn.th!X-r.;rr:: 


ILILOR   PRESTOil. 


91 


my  poor  sister  rusMng  like  one  crazed,  from  rny  father's 
room,  her  face  like  that  of  a  corpse.  Before  1  could  ar- 
ticulate a  word,  she  took  me  by  the  arm  and  dragged  me 
in,  then  pointed  to  the  bed,  and  fell  fainting  in  a  chair 
beside  it.  And  well  she  might,  for  there  lay  the  lifeless 
body  of  our  good  kind  fjitlicr,  stark  and  cold,  the  eyes 
nearly  wide  open,  and  the  color  of  the  face  so  little 
changed  that  you  could  hardly  believe  him  dead.  Calm 
and  still  he  lay,  the  very  bed-clothes  undisturbed  above 
him.  Before  five  minutes  every  soul  in  the  house  v/as 
assembled  round  the  bed,  and  in  ten  minutes  more  the 
doctor  bent  over  my  poor  father,  his  whole  frame 
trembling  with  emotion,  and  he  literally  gasping  for 
breath. 

Oh,  my  God !  how  eagerly  did  we  three  desolate 
orphans  watch  the  face  of  our  old  friend,  as,  raising  his 
head  with  a  heavy  sigh,  he  took  hold  of  my  father's  wrist 
to  feel  for  a  pulse  which  was  stilled  for  evermore.  After 
a  few  seconds  he  laid  the  hand  down  very  gently,  and, 
motioning  to  the  terrified  servants  to  leave  the  room,  he 
took  one  of  my  hands  and  one  of  Carry's,  and  prtissing 
them  between  his  own  he  said,  in  a  voice  hardly  articu- 
late : 

"  May  the  Lord  in  heaven  comfort  you  this  day,  my 
poor,  poor  children  !  " 

Upon  this  all  burst  into  tears,  and  George  only  could 
command  words :  "  Oh,  doctor !  doctor !  you  don't  think 
he's  dead — he  can't  be  dead,  doctor ! — it's  only  a  fit — 
won't  you — won't  you  try — have  some  other  doctors  !— 
try  something  I " 


02 


ILINOR    PRESTOK. 


"My  (ItNir  Ocorgo,  it's  no  earthly  uso — only  heaping 
expense  on  yourselves,  and  I  fear  yonVe  litth,'  monev  to 
sparr,"  in;  addeil,  in  a  lower  tone.  "All  the  doctors  in 
Duldiii  couldn't  l)rin«x  hack  the  soul  into  that  body. 
IIi-'s  heen  dead  some  hours!" 

"Wt'll!  we'll  try  at  any  rate,"  said  George,  some- 
what tartl)  ;  "take  the  horse,  Larry  !"  he  ealh'd  out  in 

the  passage,  "and  run   fur  Dr.  II ,  and    I'll  go  for 

Dr.  T ." 

"  Viry  well,  George,  very  well ! "  said  the  worthy 
doctor.  "I'm  content,  my  poor  boy! — i*'M  satisfy  your 
mind  at  any  rate.  G>mo  with  me,  girls,  to  the  next 
room  ! "  But  neither  Carry  nor  I  would  stir  from  the 
spot — a  strange  kind  of  fascination  was  upon  us,  and 
though  we  trembh^d  from  head  to  foot,  an<l  could  neither 
of  us  utter  a  word,  we  threw  ourselves  on  our  knees  be- 
side the  bed,  and  clasped  our  hands  in  lu-lpless  anguish, 
our  eyes  fixed  on  the  ghastly  dead  face  bdore  us,  look- 
ing  all  the  more  ghastly  for  its  life-like  hue  and  staring 
eyes.  Ah,  it  was  a  dreadful  sight — a  sight  never  to  be 
forgotten. 

It  is  needless  to  say  tlwt  th(^  two  eminent  physicians, 
who  arrived  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  did  but  con- 
lirm  the  melancholy  report  of  our  own  doctor.  Then 
^ame,  as  if  to  crown  our  aOliction,  the  drt  jull'id  thought 
!  tour  father  had  been  summoned  to  the  bar  of  divine 
justice  without  any  preparation,  no  sacraments  to  cleanse 
or  fortify  his  soul,  no  priest  to  bless  his  departure.  Oh! 
the  misery  of  those  hours  when,  the  doctors  beinjj  gone, 
we  were  left  alone  with  our  own  poor  household,  novr 


■LINOR    PRESTON. 


93 


reduced  to  Larry  and  his  tidy  spouse,  Nancy.  Bewil- 
dered and  confounded,  we  none  of  us  knew  what  to  do, 
and  I  know  not  what  we  should  have  done,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  blunt  kindness  and  the  practical  good  sense 
of  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  who  proved  himself  really  a 
friend  in  need.  The  Dillons,  too,  did  what  they  could  to 
comfort  us,  but  with  these  exceptions  we  had  surpris- 
ingly few  to  keep  .s  company.  The  first  day  there  were 
some  half  dozen  or  so,  and  so  on  during  the  night. 
Alas !  how  different  a  wake  it  was  from  that  of  my  aunt. 
Then  we  youngsters  could  not  understand  the  reason 
why  so  few  attended,  but  we  understood  it  well  enough 
since.  Had  we  had  more  experienc  '  the  world  we 
should  have  known  that  worldly  tnends,  like  rats, 
desert  falling  houses ;  and  that  now,  when  the  head  of  the 
house  was  gone,  there  was  no  great  attention  due  to  a 
family  of  orphans  who  had  no  power  to  befriend  any 
one.  So  the  first  night  had  passed  dismally  away,  every 
hour  seeming  as  long  as  two.  Early  in  the  morning, 
one  of  the  first  sounds  we  heard  was  Larry's  voice,  in 
angry  expostulation  with  some  one  on  the  stairs.  George 
immediately  went  out  to  ascertiiin  the  cause  of  the  tumult, 
and  tlie  noise  soon  ceased ;  but  when  my  poor  brother 
returned  to  the  wake-room,  after  the  lapse  of  twenty 
minutes  or  so,  there  was  an  angry  flush  on  his  pallid 
brow,  and  a  strange  lurid  light  in  his  eyes,  already  red 
and  swollen.  After  a  little  ho  beckoned  me  from  the 
room,  and  said  to  me  : 

"  Elinor,  my  poor  sister !  don't  be  surprised  at  seeing 
strange  men  move  through  the  house." 


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Sciences 
Corporalion 


23  WiST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14SS0 

(716)  •72-4503 


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94 


ELINOR    PRESTOH. 


*•  Why,  George,  what  do  you  mean  1 "  I  asked,  my 
heart  sinking  with  fear. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  Nell,"  he  returned,  with  a  strange, 
ghastly  smile,  his  lip  quivering  convulsively  ;  "it's  only 
two  bailiffs,  that  are  in  the  house  taking  an  inventory. 
They're  sent  by  my  father's  creditors  to  seize  our  goods 
and  chattels.  I  wouldn't  have  told  you,  poor  girl !  only 
it  wasn't  possible  to  keep  it  from  you.  We  must  get 
those  people  out  of  that  room  as  soon  as  possible,  under 
some  pretence,  for  the  bailiffs  will  soon  pay  it  a  visit. 
I  wonder  now,"  he  added,  in  the  same  strange,  hoarse 
voice,  "  would  it  keep  them  from  going  in  there^  were 
we  to  tell  them  that  my  poor  father  died  of  typhus,  or 
something  very  infectious  1 — eh,  Nell  %  " 

"  Ah !  George !  George !  don't  talk  so ! — don't,  for  the 
love  of  God !  1  know  you  wouldn't  say  what  wasn't  the 
truth,  and  on  such  a  subject  too — and  yet  you're  in  no 
humor  for  jesting.  God  help  us  this  day !  what  are  we 
to  do  at  all  ?  "  and  I  wrung  my  hands  in  tearless  anguish. 

Poor  George  could  give  me  little  comfort,  but  what 
he  could  he  did.  Maria  Dillon,  and  Arthur,  too,  were 
more  than  kind.  No  sooner  did  they  learn  that  our 
things  were  under  seizure  than  Arthur  hurried  off*  to 
Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  and  both  went  together  to  try  and 
arrange  matters,  so  that  the  bailiffs  should  be  withdrawn. 
This  they  found  impracticable,  as  the  sum  due  for  rent 
alone  was  very  considerable, — much  more  than,  under 
the  circumstances,  Arthur  could  reasonably  think  of  ad- 
vancing ;  and  nothing  less  would  appease  the  inexorable 
creditor,  who  had  been  for  years  and  years  the  easiest 


ELIKOR   PRESTOK. 


95 


of  landlord  i  to  my  father.  He  seemed  to  have  got  a 
nervous  fear  of  our  unfortunate  chattels  being  spirited 
away,  and  he  left  in  the  lurch,  as  he  elegantly  ex- 
pressed it.  So  the  bailiffs  remained  in  undisputed  pos- 
session of  the  house  during  the  three  days  and  nights  of 
the  wake.  If  Larry  had  got  his  way,  their  triumph 
would  not  have  been  so  easy  ;  for  his  fingers  were  itching, 
he  said,  "  to  send  that  black  a-vised  chap  in  the  hall  head 
foremost  into  the  street."  "  And  may  be  the  fellow  up 
stairs  wouldn't  follow  him  in  double-quick  time  !  "  said 
poor  Larry,  "if  you'd  only  let  me  at  them,  Master 
George, — now  do,  sir  1 — why,  I  declare  to  you,  that  wo- 
man of  mine  can  hardly  keep  her  hands  off  them,  let 
alone  me  !  " 

My  brother  had  some  difficulty  in  persuading  the 
faithful  servitor  that  any  attack  on  the  bailiffs  would 
only  add  to  the  misfortunes  of  the  family ;  and  this  being 
once  impressed  on  Larry's  mind,  he  promptly  conveyed 
the  intelligence  to  Nancy,  and  both  heroically  resolved 
"  to  let  them  fall  into  other  hands.'' 

Alfred,  who  was  then  near  the  end  of  his  noviciate, 
came  with  one  of  the  fathers  to  visit  us  during  those 
dreary  days,  and  I  remember  we  were  all  highly  of- 
fended at  what  we  considered  his  coldness.  We  could 
not  understand  the  sustaining  power  of  religion  when  it 
wields  dominion  over  the  soul.  I  have  now  little  doubt 
that  Alfred  loved  my  father  as  sincerely  as  any  of  us, 
and  that  his  sorrow  was  to  the  full  as  great  as  ours, 
especially  when  he  found  that  the  death  of  that  dear 
parent  had  been  Voth  "sudden  and  unprovided j"  but 


iM 


ELINOR   PRESTOir. 


at  the  time  I  thought  him  cold  and  heartless,  and  George, 
I  believe,  told  him  as  much  of  his  mind.  Poor  Alfred ! 
he  only  smiled — very  faintly,  too— and  said,  "  Do  you 
think  so,  George  1 "  Alas !  his  own  face  was,  at  the 
moment,  as  colorless  as  that  of  the  corpse — ^now  laid  in 
its  coffin — and  his  voice,  when  he  spoke,  had  a  tremulous 
tone,  broken  very,  very  often  by  a  short,  asthmatic 
cough.  So  he  only  said,  "Do  you  think  so,  George? 
— well,  perhaps  I  am  unfeeling."  He  turned  to  the  bed, 
on  which  the  coffin  was  laid,  and  stood  for  a  few  mo- 
ments regarding  the  corpse  in  silence.  Ho  was  in  the 
shade  of  the  door,  which  was  open,  but  I  saw  a  tear 
trickling  down  his  pale  cheek,  and  that  tear  melted  the 
ice  that  had  been  gathering  on  my  heart.  I  went  up  to 
him,  and  took  his  hand  and  squeezed  it  hard,  hard.  He 
turned  and  met  my  eye,  and  his  whole  face  was  lit  up 
with  a  momentary  gleam  of  sunshine.  The  feeling,  I 
suppose,  was  too  natural,  too  earthly  for  that  pure  world- 
detached  spirit,  for  he  instantly  resumed  the  grave,  col- 
lected mien  now  habitual  with  him,  and  told  Father 

B he  was  ready  to  go.     Having  taken  a  kind  leave 

of  us  who  were  still  in  the  flesh,  he  bent  for  one  brief 
moment  over  the  fastly-changing  remains  of  our  good 
father, — a  tremor  shook  his  whole  frame,  doubtless  as 
he  thought  of  the  immortal  soul  which  had  so  lately 
"  shuffled  off*  that  mortal  coil," — but  no  audible  sound 
escaped  him.  Before  any  of  us  could  get  out  a  word, 
he  and  his  revered  companion  had  glided  from  the  room 
like  beings  from  another  world,  cold,  and  calm,  and 
pulseless — ^at  least  to  all  human  appearance.     I  can 


.1 


ELINOR  PRESTCV. 


97 


hardly  describe  the  effect  of  this  visit.  On  me  it  had  a 
soothing  and  at  the  same  time  a  beneficial  effect.  Such 
a  picture  of  early  detachment  fpom  the  world  in  a 
brother  whom  I  had  i^nown  but  lately  so  full  of  human 
affection,  so  wrapped  up,  as  it  were,  in  the  little  circle 
that  formed  his  world, — such  a  picture  had  an  in- 
describable charm  for  me,  and  I  felt  myself  all  the  better 
for  it.  But  George  was  very,  very  angry, — I  believe  he 
hardly  ever  forgave  Alfred, — and  Carry  pursed  up  her 
pretty  lips,  and  said  Alfred  had  grown  so  cold  that  she 
couldn't  have  thought  it  possible.  He  cared  nothing 
about  poor  papa, — that  was  plain.  Little  did  they  know 
of  the  workings  of  that  young  heart  which  had  so  early 
schooled  itself  to  conformity  with  the  evangelical  counsels. 

Next  day  we  followed  the  mortal  remains  of  my 
father  to  their  last  resting-place.  His  grave  was  made 
beside  my  mother's,  in  Glassnevin,  and  not  far  from  the 
tomb  of  John  Philpot  Curran.  How  closely  we  three 
orphans  clung  together, — how  tenderly  George  supported 
each  drooping  sister  as  we  stoo  J  to  see  the  narrow  house 
filled  up.  I  well  remember  how  hard  it  was  for  me  to 
realize  to  myself  that  it  was  my  father  whom  I  saw  thus 
covered  up  in  the  dark,  lonely  grave.  He  whom  we 
had  seen  so  full  of  life,  so  cheerful  and  so  busy,  but  one 
short  week  before.  Ah !  death !  death !  how  wondrous, 
how  absolute  is  thy  power,  fell  destroyer  that  thou  art ! 

The  funeral  was  small,  very  small,  considering  the 

prominent  position  which  my  father  held.    This  at  the 

time  gave  us  little  trouble ;  but  now,  when  I  look  back 

on  the  events  of  my  past  life  through  the  softening  haze 

9 


98 


ELTKOR   PRESTON. 


of  time,  I  feel  as  though  the  ingratitude  of  our  quondam 
friends  ought  to  have  made  me  sick  of  the  world.  But 
I  was  young,  and  the  hollowness  of  worldly  friendship 
was  something  which  I  could  not  realize,  let  its  proofs 
be  ever  so  manifest.  It  is  only  the  sad  experience  of 
years  that  can  strip  the  world  of  its  specious  veil, — the 
young  heart  can  not  go  beyond  appearances,  and  they  are 
very  fair,  very  prepossessing,  indeed ! 

The  Dillons  insisted  on  our  going  home  with  them, 
but  George  and  myself  both  felt  as  though  it  would  only 
make  us  worse.  "  The  old  house  at  home  "  was  not  to 
be  left  to  its  loneliness  so  very  soon,  with  all  its  an- 
cestral furniture,— every  article  and  item  of  which  was 
now  an  honored  memento  of  "  the  loved  and  lost."  Be- 
sides the  bailiffs  were  there,  and  we  did  not  choose  to 
leave  poor  Larry  and  Nancy  to  utter  loneliness ;  so  home 
we  went.     Oh !  what  a  home  it  was ! 

Tea  was  brought  up  at  the  usual  hour,  and  we  sat 
around  the  table,  not  to  eat  or  drink,  but  to  weep  in 
silence, — ^none  of  us  could  even  speak  of  our  loss.  All 
at  once  the  door-bell  rang,  and  a  cheerful  voice  was 
heard  in  the  hall  talking  to  Nancy.  All  the  way  up  the 
stairs,  clatter,  clatter  went  the  tongue, — a  heavy  foot 
stumped  along  the  passage, — ^a  knock  at  the  drawing- 
room  door, — ^and  in  came  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  all  flushed 
and  breathless  after  his  long  walk,  as  he  took  good  care 
to  tell  us  after  he  had  established  himself  in  a  chair 
at  the  table  beside  Carry. 

"Humph!  what's  this  L  see? — crying,  ehl  Dry 
your  eyes  every  one  of  you,  no\f      George,  Fm  really 


ELINOR    PRESTON 


99 


ashamed  of  you ! — don't  let  me  see  Lnother  tear, — mind 
that  now ! — I'll  have  no  such  nonsense  here ! — that's  al] 
about  it !  Give  me  a  cup  of  tea,  Elinor, — that's  it,— 
hand  me  that  bread  and  butter,  Carry, — thank  you, 
sweetheart ! — ha !  ha ! — I  used  to  call  you  '  little  wifie,' 
— ^I  think  you  must  come  and  keep  house  for  me  now  !  " 
Thus  did  the  good  man  rattle  on  ;  it  is  true  he  did 
most  of  the  talking  himself,  except  that  George  now  and 
then  put  in  some  stray  words,  but  his  presence  was 
worth  gold  to  us.  Sometimes  we  could  not  help  smiling 
at  the  quaint  drollery  of  his  remarks.  After  tea,  just 
when  we  began  to  fear  that  hb  was  thinking  of  going,  he 
established  himself  in  the  memorable  chair  so  doubly 
haunted  with  ghostly  memories,  and  declared  his  in- 
tention of  staying  all  night.  This  cheered  us  more  than 
a  little,  for  the  comical  face  of  our  old  friend  was  pleasant 
to  look  upon,  and  the  dismal  shadows  which  follow  in 
the  train  of  death,  and  sit  brooding  over  the  stricken 
household,  took  wings  to  themselves  and  flew  away  at 
the  sound  of  his  merry  voice. 


s 


00 


ELINOR   PRBBTOV. 


CHAPTER  IV 


•  c 


EXT  morning  after  breakfast  Mr.  O'Shaugh. 
nessy  took  George  off  with  him  to  his  office 
for  a  few  hours,  charging  us  to  be  sure 
and  have  something  nice  for  dinner.  While 
Nancy  and  I  were  just  consulting  about  how 
the  "  marketing  "  was  to  be  got,  in  came  a 
large  basket  of  all  the  delicacies  of  the  sea- 
,  - .  ^  son,  sent  home  by  the  worthy  lawyer  on  his 
Ap       way  to  his  office. 

w  During  the  morning,  Nancy  came  to  ask 

me  if  I  would  be  good  enough  to  go  and  look  over  a 
letter  that  Larry  had  just  been  writing  to  a  brother  of 
his  in  America.  "  He's  been  at  it,  off  and  on,  this  fort- 
night, Miss,"  said  Nancy,  "an'  he  just  finished  it  this 
mornin'.  Little  thoughts  he  had  when  he  began  it  of 
the  news  he'd  have  to  put  in  before  it  was  done." 

"  But  why  does  he  want  me  to  read  it,  Nancy  ?  "  I 
asked,  as  we  went  down  the  kitchen  stairs. 

"Well!  to  tell  you  the  truth.  Miss  Elinor,"  said 
Nancy,  with  a  grin  that  reached  from  ear  to  ear,  "  he 
can't  make  head  or  tail  ( f  it  himself,  an'  both  him  an* 
mc'id  like  to  hear  what's  in  it,  before  it  goes," 


ELINOR   PRE8T0V. 


101 


If  it  had  been  at  another  time,  I  would  have  enjoyed 
this  amazingly,  and  even  as  it  was  I  could  not  h  elp  smil- 
ing. I  found  poor  Larry  in  a  doleful  plight  at  the 
kitchen-table,  with  a  newspaper  spread  out  under  his 
letter  to  save  the  table  from  the  inky  abomination  so 
visible  on  his  own  ten  fingers,  and  even  on  his  mouth. 
He  looked  disheartened,  too,  and  not  a  little  puzzled. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Larry  ?  "  I  inquired,  affect- 
ing not  to  know. 

"  Well !  it's  this  bit  of  a  letter,  Miss !  Yd  be  thankful 
to  you  if  you'd  read  it  for  mo, — an',  indeed,  I  don't  like 
to  ask  you,  on  account  of  the  sorrowful  news  that's  in  it. 
But  sure.  Miss  Elinor  dear !  you'll  not  mind  it !  It's 
what  we  must  all  come  to,  an'  I  hope  it's  a  happy  change 
for  the  poor  master,  any  how ! " 

Larry's  admonition  was  quite  superfluous ;  for,  after  a 
careful  investigation,  and  many  fruitless  attempts,  I  was 
forced  to  declare  that  it  was  all  Greek  and  Latin  to  me. 
Larry's  hieroglyphics  went  far  beyond  my  skill,  and  1 
told  him  so  very  gravely. 

*'  Lord  bless  me,"  cried  Nancy,  her  big  round  eyes 
protruding  far  from  their  sockets,  "  what  sort  of  a  letther 
is  it,  when  even  Miss  Elinor  can't  make  out  what's 
in  it?"      ^ 

"  Never  mind ! "  said  Larry,  beginning  with  great 
coolness  to  fold  the  precious  document,  "  never  mind, 
honey  ! — ^we'll  put  it  in  the  post  any  how,  plase  God ! 
They  say  they're  the  mischief  at  reading  letthers  in 
America!" 

I  had  some  difficulty  in  persuading  Larry  to  let  me 


102 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


I 


; 


write  a  letter  for  him.  It  was  too  much  trouble,  he 
said ;  especially  as  I  had  trouble  enough  on  my  mind  al- 
ready. But  at  last  ho  gave  in,  having  furnished  me,  with 
Nancy's  help,  with  the  various  items  of  news  which  ho 
wished  to  convey  to  his  brother  Owen,  in  Canada. 

Day  after  day  passed  away, — heavily  and  slowly 
enough,  it  is  true,  but  still  they  passed.  The  auction 
was  at  length  over.  The  furniture,  so  carefully  selected 
and  so  well  preserved  through  many  a  changeful  year, — 
each  article  vested  with  its  own  varied  associations, — all, 
all  was  gone,  scattered  abroad  through  scores  of  house- 
holds, where  their  value  was  merely  that  of "  second- 
hand furniture."  Mr.  O'Shaughncssy,  however,  had 
managed  to  secure  "  the  old  arm-chair  "  which  my  father 
had  charged  us  to  keep.  Oh !  the  breaking  up  of  a 
family, — especially  if  death  has  brought  it  about, — what 
is  there  in  all  this  wide,  cold  world  so  dreary,  so  heart- 
rending !  Many  a  time  during  those  melancholy  days 
that  it  lasted  did  I  wish  that  I,  too,  occupied  a  quiet 
grave  in  the  family-lot  in  Glassnevin.  Of  course,  the 
wish  was  sinful,  and  as  such  duly  repressed,  but  its  sub- 
stance was  in  my  poor  sinking  heart. 

When  all  was  over,  and  everything  sold,  we  had  the 
additional  consolation  of  being  informed  that  we  were 
very  nearly  penniless.  A  matter  of  fifty  pounds  fell 
into  our  hands,  and  even  that  sum  we  hardly  expected. 
Of  this  poor  George  wOuld  only  take  ten  pounds  to  buy 
himself  a  decent  suit  for  his  mourning,  Mr.  O'Shaugh- 
nessy  taking  him  from  that  day  into  a  sort  of  partner- 
ship, whereby  a  reasciuible  salary  was  at  least  secured 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


103 


to  him,  and  that  was  tho  old  man's  object.  Tlic  nuns 
of  Cabra  insisted  on  taking  Carry  to  themselves.  In 
vain  did  she  assure  them  that  she  '*  wouldii't  be  a  nun," 
and  being  then  fully  eighteen,  she  had  a  right  to  judg« 
for  herself,  she  said.  But  the  good  sisters  would  have 
her  try  (knowing  well  all  the  time  that  she  itid  no  voca- 
tion) so  that  she  might  be  near  Emily  in  the  meantime. 
This  was  a  great  inducement,  and  poor  Carry  could  not 
hold  out  when  Emily  appealed  to  her  sisterly  affection. 
I,  too,  was  invited  by  the  kind  sisters  to  make  their 
house  my  own,  at  least  for  a  time,  on  the  plea  that  I 
could  help  them  in  the  school. 

Mrs.  Dillon,  on  the  other  hand,  urged  me  to  spend 
some  time  with  her,  and  as  George  pleaded  hard  for  me 
to  remain  near  him,  I  at  length  consented. 

A  full  year  was  spent  under  the  hospitable  roof  of 
Arthur  Dillon,  and  if  the  load  of  sorrow  was  not  re- 
moved from  my  heart,  it  certainly  was  not  for  want  of 
the  kindest  and  most  unremitting  attention  on  the  part 
of  the  whole  family.  I  might,  perhaps,  except  the  elder 
Mrs.  Dillon,  who,  having  been  r^lised  by  her  husband's 
successful  specull||ons,  at  rather  an  advanced  age,  to  a 
position  which  she  bad  never  dreamed  of  occupying,  had 
never  been  able  to  divest  herself  of  the  coarse  and  some- 
what boisterous  vulgarity  which  had  been  through  life 
her  prevailing  characteristic.  On  such  a  nature  as  hers, 
the  acquisition  of  wealth  has  anything  but  a  refining 
tendency.  If  they  are  naturally  or  habitually  vulgar, 
riches  do  but  make  them  more  vulgar  still,  and  such 
vas  the  case  with  the  lady  in  question.    Still,  under  all 


104 


ELINOR    PRESTOir. 


that  thick  crust  of  vulgar  aBsumption,  Mrs.  Dillon,  senior, 
had  a  kind,  good  heart,  and  those  who  knew  her  best, 
were  dispowud  to  overlook  those  faults,  which  were 
chiefly  on  the  surface,  in  consideration  of  the  genuine 
worth  which  was  even  studiously,  it  would  seenrij  con- 
cealed within.  The  misfortunes  of  our  family  would 
undoubtedly  have  opened  a  path  for  myself  to  Mrs. 
Dillon's  heart,  were  it  not  for  an  unlucky  little  peculiar^ 
ity  of  hers  which  militated  against  mo.  She  either  had, 
or  aflfected  to  have,  a  profound  contempt  for  what  she 
called  "  larned  people,"  and  however  she  managed  to  in 
elude  me  in  that  honored  class,  she  certainly  did  so,  to  my 
great  misfortune.  I  suppose  it  was  in  consequence  of 
my  having  been  brought  up  at  a  boarding-school,  for  good 
Mrs.  Dillon  was  in  the  habit  of  declaring,  with  charac- 
teristic energy,  that  "  them  boordin'-schools  were  fit  for 
nothing  only  turnin'  the  heads  of  young  girls  :  if  she  had 
fifty  daughters,"  she  used  to  add,  "  she  wouldn't  send 
one  of  them  to  a  boordin'-school,"  nor  was  there  any  ex- 
ception made  in  these  remarks  in  favor  of  conventual 
education.  "They 're 'all  six-o'-one  and  half  a  dozen  of 
the  other.  Many  a  fine  sensible  girl-gets  spoiled  among 
them.  And  why  wouldn't  they  ? — sure  it's  ladies  they 
all  want  to  be — ^lamin'  to  play  on  the  piano,  and  sing 
songs  in  Italian,  to  be  sure,  and  French,  and  all  of  them 
out-of-the-way  languages  that  nobody  understands  a 
word  of — ^not  even  themselves,  for  all  /  know ;  an'  then 
when  they  come  home  to  their  poor  old  par-ents,  it's 
then  they'll  turn  up  their  nose  at  the  darning  of  a  stock- 
ing or  the  making-up  of  a  bed,  or  anything  that  would 


ELINOH    FREBTON. 


105 


be  useful  to  the  family.  Ah !  if  I  was  their  mother, 
maybe  I  wouldn't  keep  them  at  homo  altogether  and 
malce  them  learn  to  work — Pd  see  them  far  enough  be- 
fore I'd  be  pay  in'  out  for  what  they  ought  to  do,  an' 
have  them  sittin'  up  in  the  parlor,  singin'  their  /a-sol-las» 
Look  at  Elinor  Preston  there,"  she  would  generally  wind 
up,  "  what  is  she  good  for  now  ? — tell  me  that ! — Maria's 
bad  enough,  God  knows,  but  then  it  pleased  Providence 
to  leave  her  independent,  so  that  she  can  pay  others  to 
do  her  work.  But  Elinor,  poor  girl !  hasn't  a  shilling 
to  jingle  on  a  tombstone." 

Here  I  used  to  break  in,  though  my  heart  was  burst- 
ing, with,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dillon ! 
my  funds  are  not  quite  so  low  as  that.     You  seem  al 
ways  to  forget — " 

"  Well !  well !  how  long  would  your  poor  penny  of 
money  last  you,  if  you  hadn't  friends  like  us  to  keep 
you !  Now  I  want  to  know  What  good  your  fine  edu- 
cation does  you  ?     Tell  me  that,  now  !  " 

There  was  no  answering  this  triumphant  appeal — 
Maria  and  I  would  exchange  glances,  the  dutiful  daugh- 
ter-in-law would  answer  as  expected,  with  a  forced  laugh, 
**  Very  true,  mother,"  and  poor  Elinor  Preston  would 
change  color,  and  bend  very  low  over  the  book  or  work 
in  her  hand.  Ah !  those  were  trials  at  the  time — per- 
haps grievous  trials,  but  now  I  can  view  them  with  a 
smile  when  I  take  into  account  the  heavy  balance  of 
genuine,  unsophisticated  kindness  recorded  in  my  heart 
in  favor  of  that  very  woman.  It  is  hard  to  bear  malice 
against  the  dead.    Their  little  failings,  however  annoy- 


106 


ELINOR    PRESTOir. 


ing  they  might  have  been  to  us  at  the  time,  dwindle 
into  nothing,  when  viewed  through  the  softening  haze 
of  years,  with  the  saddening  reflection  that  the  strange 
mixture  of  good  and  ill — the  being  of  whom  they  were 
a  part,  is  long  since  mouldered  into  dust.  As  that 
thought  takes  possession  of  the  mind,  how  tenderly  do 
we  glance  over  those  peculiarities,  whether  of  mind  or 
manner,  and  fix  our  sorrowing  gaze  on  the  gem  whose 
lustre  they  once  obscured — the  sincere  and  upright  mind, 
the  warm,  trusting  heart ! 

During  this  year  of  my  sojourn  with  the  Dillons,  I 
could  not  help  noticing  the  admirable  change  which  was 
gradually  taking  place  in  Arthur,  fully  justifying  Maria's 
expectations,  sanguine  as  they  were.  What  penetration 
of  character  that  girl  must  have  had,  now  when  I  come 
to  think  of  it !  Who  but  herself  could  ever  have  seen 
through  the  frippery  airs  wherewith  he  had  so  assidu- 
ously bedizened  himself,  leaving  it  doubtful  at  times  to 
the  cursory  observer  whether  he  had  even  the  average 
run  of  common  sense.  This  salutary  change  was  per- 
ceptible in  a  thousand  little  incidents  of  daily  occur- 
rence, and  it  was  amusing  to  see  the  sly  significance 
with  which  Maria — sly  enchantress  that  she  was ! — chal- 
lenged my  attention  to  this  progressive  improvement. 

Arthur  was  one  morning  stepping  out  as  spruce  as 
ever,  but  not  anything  like  so  dandified,  to  go  to  hisi  of- 
fice, when  who  should  he  meet  on  the  very  steps  but 
our  old  acquaintance,  Susy  Broadigan,  her  face  broad, 
and  red,  and  comical  as  ever.  She  looked  rather  era 
barrassed  on  seeing  Arthur,  being  mindful  of  certain  pas 


ELINOR    FRE8T017. 


107 


sages  in  their  former  intercourse  which  were  anything 
but  favorable  io  her,  she  considered.  She  was  greatly 
surprised,  therefore,  when  her  low  curtsy  was  responded 
to  by  a  very  hearty  "  How  d'ye  do,  Susy  ?  "  from  tlie 
young  master  of  the  mansion. 

"  Why,  then,  I  was  oflen  worse,  Mr.  Arthur,  dear," 
said  contented  Susy  Broadigan,  "  many  thanks  to  you, 
sir,  for  askin'.  How's  the  mistress,  sir,  an'  the  ould 
madam,  an'  your  father — the  Lord's  blessin'  on  him ! 
it's  him  that  never  turns  his  bafck  on  the  poor,  anyhow — 
an'  sure  so  sign  on  him — he  wouldn't  be  what  he  is  the 
day  only  for  the  blessin'  o'  God,  an'  the  blessin'  o'  God 
tbllys  them  that  has  compassion  on  the  poor.  Might  I 
make  so  free  as  to  ask,  sir,  is  Miss  Elinor  Preston  athin 
this  fine  mornin'  1 — I  was  wantin'  to  see  her." 

"  Certainly,  Susy,  she  is  in,  and  I'm  sure  she'll  be 
very  glad  to  see  you,  and  so  will  Mrs.  Dillon — Mrs. 
Arthur ! "  he  added,  with  a  smile  that  put  Susy  into 
ecstasies,  and  drew  a  fervent  blessing  from  her  honest 
heart. 

Arthur  turned  and  rang  the  bell,  desiring  the  servant 
who  appeared  to  tell  the  ladies  that  Susy  Broadigan 
wanted  to  see  Miss  Preston.  Maria  and  myself  were 
sitting  together  at  the  time  in  the  front  parlor,  and 
pleased  we  both  were. 

"  Why,  then,  now,  Mrs.  Arthur,  ma'am,"  said  Susy, 
rather  abruptly,  after  showing  her  manners  by  dropping 
a  curtsy  to  each,  "  what  have  you  been  doin'  to  the 
master,  dear  young  gentlemiui !  that  he's  come  to  be  so 
homely  and  so  natural-like  all  of  a  sudden  1 "  iv 


^    \08 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


"We  laughed,  and  Maria  asked  what  she  meant,  just  as 
though  she  didn't  know,  sly  one  that  she  was ! 

"  Hut,  tut,  ma'am — begging  your  pardon — sure  you 
know  well  enough.  Why,  only  I've  been  lookin'  at  him 
since  he  was  the  height  o'  my  knee,  I  wouldn't  believe 
the  bishop  it  was  him  was  in  it.  All  the  ould  foolery 
that  he  used  to  have  is  gone — gone,  1  hope,  for  good." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so,  Susy  1 "  said  Maria,  still 
laughing. 

"  What  makes  me  think  so,  ma'am !  why,  isn't  it  as 
plain  as  the  nose  on  my  face !  When  I  met  him  there 
abroad,  didn't  he  speak  to  me  as  kind  an'  as  civil  as  if 
I  was  one  of  his  own  aiquals ! — an'  didn't  he  smile  at 
myself,  loo — an'  more  betoken,  ma'am !  he  has  sich  a 
sweet  smile  of  his  own,  that  you'd  wonder  at  him  for 
throwin'  it  away  on  an  ould  apple-woman.  And  didn't 
he  rins:  the  bell  with  his  own  hand !  Wow !  wow ! "  and 
Susy  shook  her  head  with  a  most  sagacious  air ;  "  sure 
it's  myself  can  see  the  change  in  the  clappin'  of  your 
hands.  Tell  me  this,  ma'am  ! "  and  Susy  sidled  up  quite 
close  to  Maria,  until  she  almost  whispered  in  her  ear ; 
"  Tell  me  this,  if  I  may  make  bould  to  ask :  doesn't  he 
go  regular  to  his  duty  now  ? — I  know  the  ould  madam 
couldn't  get  him  to  go  at  all." 

Maria  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  then  changed 
the  conversati  n,  but  Susy  would  have  the  last  word. 
"  I  knew  it — I  knew  it  well,"  she  said,  with  honest  exul- 
tation,  "  I'm  an  ould  woman  now,  ladies,  and  I  never 
seen  sich  a  change  as  that  brought  about  in  so  short  a 
time  athout  the  grace  o'  God.    Nothing  in  tl\e  world  but 


^ 


ELINOR   FRESTOir. 


109 


that  one  thing  could  bring  Mister  Arthur  tc  what  he  is 
ffrom  what  he  was." 

1  "  But,  it's  what  Fm  forgettin'  myself  altogether,  an* 
making  mighty  free  entirely.  But  sure  ye's  all  know 
that  poor  Susy  Broadigan  says  nothing  but  what's  in 
her  heart  an'  mind,  an'  you  never  take  anything  she 
says  amiss,  God  mark  ye's  all  with  grace !  Well !  Miss 
Elinor  dear,  I  came  over  this  mornin'  just  to  ask  you  if 
you  ever  got  any  word  from  Larry  and  Nancy,  from 
beyant  the  water.  I'm  troubled  every  night  dreamin* 
about  them,  an'  it's  what  I  began  to  think  they  might 
be  dead." 

"  Not  unless  they  died  within  the  last  month,  Susy, 
for  I  had  a  letter  from  them  a  few  days  ago.  They 
were  quite  well  then."  . ,    v  i.     • 

"  Thanks  be  to  God  for  that  same,  dear ! — are  they 
still  in  the  same  place — Montrale — I  think  it  was — or 
somewhere  in  the  Canadas,  anyhow  ?  " 

"  Yes !  they  are  still  in  Montreal — ^they  were  so  for- 
tunate as  to  be  both  engaged  in  the  same  house  just  as 
they  were  with  us ! " 

"  Ah !  God  help  them,  poor  things !  I'm  afeard  they'll 
never  meet  with  a  home  like  yours ! — ^poor  Nancy  and 
poor  Larry !  may  the  Lord  assist  their  honest  enday- 
vors.  I  was  speakin'  to  Larry's  mother,  ould  Polly, 
and  she  tould  me  she  got  five  pound  from  them  about 
three  months  agone.  Their  luck  will  be  all  the  better 
for  not  forgettin'  her,  I  must  call  on  my  way  back  an' 
let  poor  granny  know  about  this  letter." 
^  I  said  she  would  oblige  me  by  doing  so,  whereupon 
10 


110 


ELINOR  PRESTOK. 


! 


Susy,  having  asked  for  all  the  sunriving  members  of  our 
family,  and  invoked  a  blessing  on  each,  turned  to  Maria 
and  bade  her  "  good-mominV'  together  with  a  certain 
ejaculatory  prayer  which  brought  the  warm  blood  to  the 
young  matron's  cheek. 

•  "May  the  Lord  bring  you  safe  over  your  trouble, 
Mrs.  Arthur,  dear !  "  she  repeated  in  a  lower  voice,  on 
her  way  to  ^he  door.  "Sure  it's  myself  knows  well 
the  tryin'  time  that's  before  you — ochone !  hadn't  I  five 
o'  them  myself!  God  be  with  you  all  till  I  see  you 
again ! " 

"  Susy  evidently  considers  herself  a  privileged  person," 
said  Maria,  as  Susy's  squat  little  figure  disappeared  from 
our  view ;  "  if  another  in  her  position  were  to  speak  as 
she  does  they  would  get  turned  out  of  doors  for  their 
pains,  but  for  your  life  you  can't  put  a  check  on  Susy's 
tongue.  It  will  run  on,  do  as  you  may,  and  you  cannot 
take  offence,  for,  after  all,  there  is  much  good  sense  in 
what  she  says.  You  must  have  noticed  her  remarks  as 
to  the  change  so  visible  in  Arthur."  ->■-■ 

"  I  did,  and  am  quite  of  her  way  of  thinking.  There 
is  no  such  cure  for  vanity,  affectation,  and  all  other  such 
nonsense,  as  the  cultivation  of  religious  sentiments— of 
course  I  do  not  mean  the  mere  outward  practices  of  re- 
ligion, but  the  thoughts,  the  habit  of  mind.  Place  that 
under  the  influence  of  religion,  and  all  that  is  mean, 
shallow,  conventional,  will  disappear  like  specks  from 
off  the  sun's  disk."      , 

**  Why,  you  talk  like  a  book,  ma  belle  Elinor,  and 
^uite  strc  igly,  too  ! "  said  Maria,  with  a  pleased  smile. 


ELINOR   PREST  iV, 


Mil 


"  If  I  do,  it  is  because  I  feel  strongly  on  this  subject. 
If  all  young  men  were  made  fully  sensible  of  their  true 
relations  with  regard  to  God  and  the  world,  so  that  they 
could  bear  the  insensate  ridicule  of  foolish  worldlings 
without  shrinking,  we  should  then  see  them  i::  their  real 
character — fresh  from  the  hand  of  God — and  there  would 
be  no  lisping  dandies,  no  foreign  airs  put  on  to  mar  and 
disfigure,  as  in  Arthur's  case  it  did,  a  really  fine  char- 
acter. Irishmen,  were  they  only  true  to  God,  would  be 
Irishmen,  properly  so  called— proud  of  that  title — proud 
of  their  honored  ancestry." 

"  I  declare,  Nell,"  said  Maria,  archly,  though  her  own 
cheek  glowed  with  sympathetic  fervor,  "  I  declare,  you 
grow  quite  eloquent.  There  spoke  the  blood  of  all  the 
old  Prestons  from  the  Confederation*  down !  Upon  my 
word,  Aunt  Kate  was  nothing  to  you  in  the  way  of 
glorifying  your  ancestors  !  " 

"  Don't  mistake  me  now,  Maria  " — I  knew  she  didn't 
mistake  me — she  well  knew  and  fully  entered  into  my 
feelings  on  the  subject — "  I  do  not  speak  of  my  own  an- 
cestors in  particular — I  include  the  whole  of  Catholic 
Ireland — oh !  it  is  a  glorious  heritage  that  our  fathers 
have  left  us ! " 

"  I  know  it,  sweet  friend,  I  know  it  well ;  but  here 
comes  Mrs.  Dillon,  senior — it's  well  she  didn't  hear  you, 
or  she'd    be  for  sending  you  to  Swift'sf  in  a  straight 

*  The  great  Catholic  Confederation  of  1641,  in  which  the  Lord 
Oormanstown  of  that  day  took  an  active  part.  He  was  one  of  th« 
Lords  of  the  Pale  who  remained  faithful  to  the  old  religion. 

t  Swift's  Hospital  is  the  Lunatic  Asylum  of  Dublin.  It  was 
founded  by  Dean  Swift. 


112 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


jacket,  and  perhaps  me  too  for  listening  to  a  mad^ 
woman.  Hush-sh-sh,  not  a  word ! — there's  a  thunder* 
cloud  on  her  brow,  or  Fm  mistaken.  Oh !  mother,"  and 
she  almost  ran  to  meet  her,  "  I  thought  you'd  never  get 
in  from  market.  I  want  you  to  help  ;ne  to  cut  out  those 
shirts ! " 

"  To  be  sure  you  do ! "  said  the  old  lady,  gruffly,  as 
she  puffed  and  panted  herself  into  a  chair ;  *'  you're  al- 
ways a'  wantin'  me  for  something  or  another — ^I  wonder 
what  you'd  do  if  you  hadn't  me.  I  think,  between  the 
two  of  you,  you  might  manage  to  cut  the  shirts  without 
me :  here  I  am  just  worn  off  my  feet  with  the  dint  of 
hard  work,  runnin'  to  market,  runnin'  here,  an'  runnin' 
there,  an'  two  of  you  girls  «ittin'  here  in  state — not  doin' 
a  thing.  !My  poor  bones  pays  for  all.  But  sure  it's  all 
on  account  of  some  people  bein'  brought  up  ladies- 
ladies  indeed! — well  come  up  with  us  all! — some 
people's  the  china  ware,  an'  some  people's  the  crockery 
— ^that's  it !  well !  well !  its  a  quare  world  anyhow — for 
the  size  of  it ! " 

Having  delivered  herself  of  this  aphorism,  apparently 
very  consoling  to  herself— it  was  rather  a  favorite  with 
her,  too — she  seemed  to  grow  somewhat  softer  :  "  Well  i 
what  about  them  shirts,  girls  ? — ^it's  a  pity  to  keep  the 
two  of  you  idle.  Get  the  linen,  Maria,  an'  I'll  show 
you  what  to  do." 

As  Maria  well  knew,  this  was  soothing  to  her  bustling 
lelf-importance,  and  away  she  posted  in  tolerably  good 
lumor  to  give  directions  about  the  dinner. 

Arthur  was  near  spoiling  all  at  dinner.     "  Mother ! " 


N 


\ 


ELINOR   PRKSTON. 


118 


said  he,  "  we're  going  to  visit  Christ's  church  and  St. 
Patrick's  this  afternoon  with  a  friend  or  two  from  the 
country  whom  I  have  asked  to  spend  the  evening.  Will 
you  come  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  then,  I  won't,"  was  the  gracious  rejoinder ;  "  I 
never  want  to  set  my  foot  in  one  o'  them  churches — 
where's  the  use  of  it  ? — there's  churches  enough  of  our 
own  in  the  dty  where  we  can  go  an'  say  a  prayer  when 
we  have  time !  Catch  me  goin'  to  Christ  church  or 
St.  Patrick's  either — more  shame  for  it  to  have  such  a 
name !  I  wish  to  God  they  had  called  it  something  else 
when  they  took  it  from  us !  If  they  called  it  Harry 
the  Eighth's  church,  or  Queen  Bess'  church,  or  something 
that  way,  now,  it  would  be  only  common  decency  ;  but 
to  think  of  them  having  the  impudence  to  keep  St. 
Patrick's  name  on  the  buildin'  when  he  turned  his  back 
on  it  hundreds  o'  years  ago,  an'  wouldn't  touch  it  with 
his  stick  ever  since — St.  Patrick's  church  indeed ! — oh ! 
its  no  wonder  my  head's  gray !  " 

"  Never  mind  them,  Margaret !  "  said  the  old  gentle- 
man — for  he  was  a  gentleman,  one  of  nature's  gentle- 
men— in  a  soothing  tone,  "  never  mind.  Give  us  some 
soup,  there's  a  good  soul !  before  it  cools.  Is  it  mock- 
turtle,  or  what  ?  "      ..  ,' 

"Mock-turtle,  to-day  again! — ^no,  indeed,  Stephen, 
honey !  it's  no  such  thing !  You  had  mock-turtle,  yes- 
terday, and  you  may  be  very  thankful  to  get  it  once 
a  week.     It's  just  plain  rice  soup — that's  what  it  is !  " 

"  Let  us  have  it,  my  dear,  whatever  it  is.  Thank 
you — Elinor,  after  you !     Weil,  Arthur,  my  boy,  are 


^ 


"¥ 


114 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


you  going  to  take  our  Kerry  friends  a  sight-seeiug  this 
afternoon?" 

*'  I  think  so,  father, — that  is,  if  you  cannot  well  spare 
time." 

The  old  gentleman  could  not  spare  time.  He  had 
the  world  and  all  of  business  on  hands,  but  he  charged 
his  son  to  show  the  visitors  everything  that  was  worth 
seeing. 

"  Well,  you  know  I  can't  show  them  all  in  one  day, 
father,  but  we'll  do  what  we  can  in  that  way  between 
this  and  six  o'clock." 

About  three  the  carriage  was  at  the  door,  and  the  two 
Fltzmaurices,  commonly  known  in  their  own  locality  as 
the  Fitzmaurice  Brothers,  were  duJy  in  waiting  in  the 
front  parlor  when  Maria  and  I  descended,  shawled  and 
bonneted,  for  the  drive.  They  were  no  strangers  to 
any  of  the  Dillon  family,  so  their  introduction  was 
merely  to  myself.  There  was  so  little  to  distinguish 
one  brother  from  the  other,  and  the  family  likeness  was 
really  so  strong,  that  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  hardly 
remember  which  was  which.  Several  times  during  the 
afternoon  I  had  the  mortification  of  being  set  right,  now 
addressing  Mr.  Henry  as  Mr.  John,  and  vice  versa. 
After  several  mischances  of  this  kind,  and  just  when  I 
was  falling  into  despair,  I  discovered  by  the  merest 
chance  that  Mr.  John,  the  head  of  the  firm,  spoke  with 
the  slightest  possible  snuffle,  while  his  brother's  enun- 
ciation was  remarkably  clear.  This  discovery  set  me 
quite  at  my  ease,  and  the  relief  it  afforded  me  gave  me 
such  a  flow  of  spirits  as  I  had  not  had  for  many  a  day 


S 


XLINOR   PRESTON, 


115 


previous.  I  had  often  visited  the  Dublin  lions  before, 
but  really  I  was  quite  in  the  humor  of  examining  them 
myself  that  day  and  exhibiting  their  "  points  "  to  others. 
So  off  we  went-  'n  the  Dillon  barouche,  Maria  and  I  on 
the  back  seat,  with  Fitzmaurice  Brothers  for  our  vis-d-vis^ 
and  Artb'ir  sharing  the  driver's  seat. 

First  ji^  visited  some  of  the  principal  Catholio 
churches,  l^t  of  the  Conception  in  Marlborough  street, 
St.  Andr50w's  in  Westland  row,  the  beautiful  Church  of 
St.  Francis  Xavier  in  Gardiner  street,  and  one  or  two 
others,  but  these  were  all  too  new  for  the  antiquarian 
tastes  of  our  southern  friends ;  they  were  proud  to  see 
such  churches  belonging  to  ourselves,  and,  to  do  them 
justice,  said  a  short  prayer  in  each  with  becoming  rever- 
ence, but  they  wanted  to  get  on  to  "  the  old  churches  and 
things  " — the  things  being,  as  we  afterwards  found  out, 
the  Four  Courts,  the  Custom  House,  the  Bank  of  Ireland, 
and  Nelson's  Pillar ;  none  of  them  belonging,  indeed, 
to  the  antiquarian  period,  but  great  sights,  for  all  that, 
for  "  country  cousins." 

I  was  really  in  a  facetious  mood  just  then,  for  there 
was  something  remarkably  quizzical  about  this  worthy 
pair  of  Siamese  twins — ^by-the-by,  they  were  rather  of 
the  fattest,  too — quite  in  condition  were  the  two  Brothers 
Fitzmaurice.  But  this  artificial  frame  of  mind  soon 
gave  way  before  the  awful  grandeur  of  the  old  cathedral 
piles.  There  is  something  inexpressibly  solemn  and 
touching  in  the  interior  of  such  grand  old  temples — tem< 
pies  where  our  fathers  worshipped,  albeit  that  they  have 
■ince  **  fallen  from  their  high  estate,"  and  have  now 


116 


KLINOR   PRISTOir. 


nether  altai  nor  sacrifice.  There  is  choral  service  in 
Christ  Church  every  aflemoon  at  three  o'clock,  on  which 
occasion  it  is  usually  crowded  with  fashionables,  but  by 
the  time  we  reached  there  the  service  was  over,  the  audi- 
ence gone,  and  the  old  minster  left  to  its  ghostly  still- 
ness, broken  only  by  our  cautious  footsteps,  and  our 
whispered  comments  on  what  we  saw.  As  w«  wandered 
through  the  sounding  aisles,  a  tender  melancMy  stole 
over  me  as  memory  brought  back  the  last  iqi(|  I  had 
paid  to  Christ  Church,  when  my  father  and  molwr  and 
poor  Aunt  Kate  were  all  of  the  party.  Then  they  were 
full  of  life  and  spirits,  and  likely  to  live  for  many  and 
many  a  year ;  now  they  were  all  dead — dead  and  cold  as 
the  marble  effigy  of  the  renowned  Strongbow,  where  it 
lay  on  its  monumental  slab  before  us,  with  shield  en 
arm  and  hands  clasped  as  if  in  prayer.  (It  had  need  to 
pray,  too,  for  it  is  to  be  feared  that  its  original,  like 
many  other  great  men,  did  not  pray  much  while  living !) 
Still  I  did  my  best  to  shake  off  these  saddening  thoughts, 
and  affected  a  gayety  I  no  longer  felt.  Afler  a  while, 
however,  my  own  individual  concerns  began  to  dwindle 
into  nothing,  and  finally  faded  from  my  mind,  in  pres- 
ence  of  the  tombs  of  the  mighty  dead.  When  I  stood 
before  the  monumental  figure  of  "  Hie  first  and  princu 
pal  invader  of  Ireland^'*  as  the  legend  on  his  toml  de- 
scribes him,  I  said  to  myself,  "  What  now  remains  of 
this  great  Captain — ^the  teifror  of  a  whole  nation  1  A 
handful  of  dust,  even  that  undistinguishable  from  its 
mother  earth !  So  much  for  what  men  call  glory !  ** 
Still  further  on,  we  paused  before  the  tomb  of  Thoma« 


\ 


\ 


ILINOR   PRBSTOir. 


117 


incu 

is  of 

A 

iU 
f »» 


Prior,  and  again  the  inward  voice  whispered :  "  Here 
lies  a  man  who  holds  a  high  place  among  the  English 
classics  ;  his  fame  remains,  but  himself — where  is  he  1 
what  is  there  now  of  his  mortal  body  ?  where  is  his 
immortal  soul — the  spirit  which  created  those  undying 
verses  ?  "  On  and  on  we  went  through  "  the  sweeping 
aisles,"  passing  on  our  way  the  tombs  of  lords  temporal 
and  spiritual,  with  eminent  citizens  of  every  age.  What 
were  all  these  now  but  phantom-names,  high-sounding 
indeed,  and  much  be-praised  on  their  respective  stones 
by  the  chisels  of  men  who,  less  fortunate  than  those  they 
celebrated,  had  themselves  sunk  into  nameless  graves ! 
What  had  become  of  the  hopes  and  fears,  joys  and  sor- 
rows which  alternately  held  these  sleepers  in  thrall  ] — ^all 
gone — gone — leaving  no  record  of  their  passage !  Then 
how  could  I,  poor  lowly  mortal,  undistinguished  from 
the  common  herd,  how  could  I  busy  myself  in  such  a 
scene,  in  such  a  presence — with  little  sorrowful  reminis- 
cences which  affected  only  myself?  "  What  will  your 
troubles  be  in  fifty  years  or  so?"  I  asked  myself; 
**  who  will  then  know  anything  about  them  or  you  1 — 
for  shame ! — cheer  up,  girl !  and  do  what  you  can  to 
cheer  others  too !  "  In  pursuance  of  this  sage  self-coun- 
sel I  resolutely  turned  the  brightest  side  out,  and  made 
myself  very  busy  in  the  capacity  of  cicerone  to  the  great 
comfort  and  instruction  of  the  Brothers  Fitzmaurice. 
Great  was  the  wonder  expressed  on  their  faces  as  I  told 
them  of  the  old  Danish  king  of  Dublin,  Sitric  son  of 
Auley,  who,  in  conjunction  with  the  archbishop  of  that 
day,  also  a  Dane,  founded  this  church  about  the  middle 


118 


KLINOR   PRI8T0V. 


of  the  twelflh  century ;  and  still  more  surprised  were 
they  when  I  pointed  out  to  them  the  different  portions 
of  the  building,  distinctive  in  their  character,  erected  at 
widely-different  periods.  I  believe  they  regarded  myself 
with  as  much  admiration  as  they  did  the  lofty  arches 
and  graceful  pillars,  and  archiepiscopal  grandeur  of  the 
old  cathedral : 


i« 


And  Btill  they  gazed,  and  still  their  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  oarry  all  /knew." 


So  much  talking  was  very  unusual  with  me,  but  some- 
how it  seemed  to  devolve  on  me :  Arthur  had  never 
given  much  attention  to  the  history  of  his  country,  or 
the  local  history  of  his  native  city,  and  Maria,  though 
tolerably  well  informed  on  most  subjects,  had  little  or 
no  taste  for  archa)ological  or  antiquarian  lore.  So  there 
were  the  Brothers  Fitzmaurice  to  be  enlightened — want- 
ing to  know  all  about  every  thing ;  and  there  were  na- 
tional  monuments  which  I  highly  prized,  crying  out  to 
me  in  their  own  mute  eloquence  to  do  them  justice,  so 
talk  I  must  and  did. 

Leaving  Christ  Church,  we  sent  the  carriage  on  before, 
and  proceeded  on  foot  through  the  ancient  street,  which 
bears  the  name  of  our  national  patroness,  the  great  St. 
Bride,  to  the  venerable  Church  of  St.  Patrick,  said  to  be 
founded  by  the  Saint  himself.  Like  some  brilliant  gem 
gleaming  out  through  the  dusty  rubbish  of  an  '*  old  curi- 
osity-shop," stands  the  beautiful  old  Cathedral,  closely 
surrounded  by,  and  as  it  were  choked  up  among  build 
ii^  of  a  mean  and  common  description,  many  of  them 


ILIVOR   PRESTOZr. 


110 


bearing  tlic  marks  of  very  respectable  antiquity,  but 
with  littlt!  else  to  recommend  them.  •  But  St.  Patrick's 
itself,  both  without  and  within,  is  a  rare  specimen  of  the 
graceful  Gothic,  in  perhaps  its  purest  period,  the  twelfth 
or  thirteenth  century.  There  are  few  buildings  in  Ire- 
land, or  perhaps  any  other  country,  to  exceed  St.  Pat- 
rick's, whether  in  artistic  excellency  or  historic  interest. 
Many  a  Saint  officiated  at  its  altars — when  ultars  it  had 
— and  in  the  van  of  the  shadowy  host  rising  before  us 
are  the  venerable  figures  of  St.  Patrick,  an^I  St.  Lawrence 
OToole,  great  patriarchs  of  our  race.  Passing  on  down 
to  modern  times  we  perceive  **  the  witty  Dean,"  whose 
name  is  honorably  identified  with  that  of  St.  Patrick's— 
the  immorUil  Swifl,  whose  mortal  remains  rest  within 
the  walls  of  the  church  where  he  so  often  officiated. 
Near  him  sleeps  Hester  Johnson,  known  all  the  world 
over  as  the  Stella  who  was  his  inspiratfbn.  Their 
monuments  are  plain  marble  tablets  placed  against  two 
adjoining  pillars  in  the  nave.  Here,  too,  lies  the  body 
of  Duke  Schomberg,  mouldered  into  dust,  and  yonder 
slab  of  black  marble  set  in  the  wall  commemorates  the 
notable  fact. 

It  was  a  breezy  day  in  early  summer,  a  day  of  cloud 
and  sunshine,  and  the  sunbeams  shooting  through  the 
grand  old  windows,  glanced,  and  gleamed,  and  danced 
like  elfin  spirits  through  the  deserted  aisles  and  over  the 
ancient  tombs.  The  wind,  too,  came  rushing  in  at  inter- 
vals, gently  uplifting  the  gauze  veil  from  off  my  bonnet, 
giving  a  sportive  9hake  to  Maria's  long  ringlets,  and 
then,   by  \7ay  of  finale^  sweeping  along   the  arched 


•    V 


i  i 


ISO 


ELINOR  PRC  'CON. 


poof,  making  such  a  rustling  up  there  among  the  heavy 
folds  of  the  ancitnt  banners,*  that  the  Brother's  Fitz* 
maurice  simultaneously  started  more  than  once,  and 
looked  up  alarmed,  probably  believing  that  some  of  the 
shadows  of  the  place  were  suddenly  starting  into  life. 

Having  at  last  seen  all  that  was  to  be  seen,  we  took 
our  leave  of  the  old  Cathedral,  Maria  and  I,  as  we  whis- 
pered to  each  other  in  the  aisles,  both  impressed  with 
the  sad  fate  which  had  given  these  treasures  of  Catholic 
art  into  the  hands  of  strangers, — Arthur  thinking  that, 
after  all,  the  dark  ages  weren't  so  very  dark  as  people 
take  the  liberty  of  calling  them,  and  the  Brothers  Fitz- 
maurice  as  full  of  simple  wonder  as  men  could  be. 
The  burthen  of  their  thoughts  may  be  inferred  from  what 
Arthur  overheard  Mr.  Henry  say  to  Mr.  John,  while 
the  rest  of  us  were  considering  where  we  should  go 
next :  "  I  say,  John,  wouldn't  she  be  better  than  a  book 
of  winter  nights  by  the  fireside  ?  why,  if  we  had  her,  it 
would  be  just  the  same  as  a  peep-show — only  hearing, 
instead  of  seeing."  To  which  John,  it  appears,  gave  a 
cordial  assent.  Good,  simple  souls,  those  Tralee  mer- 
chants !  but,  I  fancy,  rather  further  behind  the  age  than 
Tralee  merchants  are  now.  By  the  time  we  had  seen 
all  the  usual  sights,  Maria  and  myself  were  about  tired, 
though  we  had  on  the  whole  a  pleasant  afternoon  of  it. 


*  "  The  banners  of  the  Knights  of  St.  Patrick  hang  at  a  consider- 
able elevation  over  the  arches  of  the  nave,  and  would  have  a  very 
pleasing  effect  but  for  the  melancholy  appearance  of  decay  which 
the  whole  of  this  portion  of  the  venerable  edifice  presents."— i>u^/»ii| 
by  W.  F.  Wakkmak. 


I    ! 


ELINOR  PRESTON. 


121 


There  was  a  freshness  of  originality  about  the  worthy 
Kerry  men  that  was  quite  charming  j?  and  then  to  hear 
Arthur,  how  glowingly  he  descanted  on  the  eloquence  of 
Curran,  and  Flood,  and  Grattan,  while  doing  the  honors 
of  the  ancient  Parliament  House,  now  alas !  known  as 
the  Bank  of  Ireland — sic  transit  gloria  mundi !  Maria 
and  I  smiled  at  each  other  as  we  listened  to  his  explana- 
tions, as  memory  brought  back  the  time— only  a  few 
years  back — when  he  would  have  sneered,  or  affected  to 
sneer,  at  the  name  and  fame  of  even  those  great  lumin- 
aries of  the  political  hemisphere  of  Ireland.  Our  coun 
try  friends  were  evidently  more  at  home  on  this  subject 
They  had  read  of  the  great  orators  of  their  country,  and 
were  honestly  proud  of  their  fame.  They  had  been 
subscribers  to  the  Nation  from  its  very  commencement, 
and  were  rather  inclined  to  take  sides  with  the  Young 
Ireland  party — ^not  that  they  were  prepared  to  give  up  the 
moral  force  doctrine,  for  they  were  still  ardent  admirers 
of  O'Connell  and  spoke  of  him  as  the  Liberator,  although 
that  term  was  now  tacitly  dropped — the  star  of  the 
great  leader  being  well-nigh  set.  So  the  Brothers  Fitz- 
maurice  stood,  as  it  were,  midway  between  the  Old  and 
Young  Irelanders,  with  a  hand  extended  lovingly  to  each. 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Dillon,"  said  the  elder  brother,  as  we 
stepped  out  into  the  grand  portico  of  the  Bank  of  Ire- 
land, fronting  on  Westmoreland  street,  "  pray,  Mr.  Dil- 
lon !  which  of  these  six  is  tie  pillar  against  which  Cur- 
ran was  found  leaning  at  the  moment  when  the  unfor- 
tunate Act  of  Union  was  being  passed  within  ?  " 

Arthur  looked  surprised,  and  not  a  little  embarrassed* 
11 


122 


BLINOB   PRESTON. 


He  had  never  heard  of  this  incident,  and  yet  did  not 
like  to  say  so.  v 

"  I  really  oan  lot  tell,"  he  said ;  "  I  believe  tradition 
has  not  pointed  out  which  particular  pillar  it  was.*' 

'*  Well !  the  incident  hae  always  struck  me  as  most 
affecting — ^you  know  it,  of  course^  Miss  Preston  1 "«  Miss 
Preston  did  not,  unluckily. 

"  Well !  it  seems  that  on  that  fatal  day  of  the  year 
1800,  which  sealed  the  political  doom — ^and,  I  might  add, 
annihilated  the  nationality  of  Ireland — unless,  indeed,  the 
glorious  revival  of  our  era  may  restore  it  to  life,  which 
is  not  at  all  improbable — ^as  I  was  saying,  ladies,  on  that 
fatal  day  somebody,  whose  name  I  forget — my  memory 
is  none  of  the  best  at  times,  found  the  great  little  coun- 
sellor leaning  against  one  of  these  pillars — I'm  really 
sorry  not  to  know  which  of  them  it  was — with  a  coun 
tenance  so  woe-begone,  and,  in  fact,  so  dull  and  stupid, 
that  he  was  really  alarmed,  and,  taking  him  by  the  arm, 
asked  what  was  the  matter.  Whereupon  poor  Curran 
told  him,  but  not  till  he  had  repeated  the  question  more 
than  once,  that  there  was  quite  enough  the  matter,  for 
that  the  national  existence  of  Ireland  was  being  sold 
away  in-doors,  *  and,'  said  poor  Curran,  *  I  couldn't  stand 
it — I  couldn't  wait  to  see  that  treasonable  Act  passed  ! ' 
1  don't  pretend  to  say  it  in  his  own  words,  but  that's  the 
substance  of  it.  Ah !  John  Philpot  Curran !  "  apostro- 
phized the  worthy  Kerry  man,  as  he  wiped  away  a  tear 
that  made  me  forgive  all  his  tedious  circumlocution, 
"  John  Philpot  Curran  !  it's  low  your  grave  is  this  day 
i:i  Prospect  Cemetery,  but  high  is  your  place  in  the 


ELINOR   PRS9T0V. 


123 


heart  of  Ireland,  for  it's  you  had  the  great  tongue  and 
the  great  head,  and  it's  you  was  the  patriot  all  out ! " 

"  Is  it  Curran,  your  honor  ! "  interrupted  an  old-fash- 
ioned little  urchin,  whose  garments  were  in  a  sad  state 
of  dilapidation,  especially  about  the  knees  and  elbows ; 
"is  it  Curran,  your  honor!  ah!  then,  sure  enough  he 
was  the  broth  of  a  boy,  and  if  you  want  to  know  which 
pillar  it  was,  sir,  sure  Vm  the  boy  that  knows  it  as  well 
as  any  other  in  Dublin  City.  There  it  is,  your  honor  ! " 
pointing,  or  rather  laying  his  finger  on  the  one  just  be- 
fore him ;  "  that't  it,  sir !  that's  the  one  Curran  leaned 
agin'  whin  he  tuk  that  weakness — pity  the  friend  you 
were  talkin'  of,  sir,  hadn't  a  drop  of  Kinahari's  malt  in 
his  pocket — it  'id  bring  him  round  in  no  time.  You 
would't  have  e'er  a  sixpence  or  a  shillin'  about  you,  sir  % 
— my  mother's  very  bad  with  the  windy  colic,  sir,  an' 
there's  six  of  us  in  it,  an'  we  haven't  a  rap  to  bless  our- 
selves  with — " 

"  Poor  boy  !  poor  boy  ! "  broke  simultaneously  from 
the  wonder-parted  lips  of  Fitzmaurice  Brothers,  as  they 
each  dropped  a  shilling  in  the  outstretched  palm.  For 
us,  we  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing,  for  the  young- 
ster, as  we  passed  him  descending  the  steps,  evidently 
knowing  us  citizens  from  our  country  friends,  said,  with 
a  leer  of  most  mature  cunning :  "  I  wonder,  old  boys ! 
does  your  mother  know  you're  out  ?  " 

"  I  say,  Ned  !  "  cried  another  juvenile  loiterer  from  a 
lower  step,  "  you  took  them  to  the  fair  nicely — didn't 
you  1 — what  did  you  know  about  the  pillar  %  ' 

"  Why  not  much,  to  be  sure,"  returned  Ned,  with  dig 


124 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


nified  candor,  *^  but  none  of  them  knew  any  more  than  I 
did,  an'  why  wouldn't  I  make  an  honest  penny  out  of  the 
Kerry  men.  It's  all  for  my  poor  mother,  you  know, 
that's  so  bad  with  the  windy  colic!"  and  then  both 
raised  such  a  laugh  that  Fitzmaurice  Brothers  turned 
their  heads,  whereupon  the  waggish  young  shark  who 
had  been  preying  upon  their  simple  kindness,  placed  his 
finger  on  his  nose,  and  with  his  two  hands  made  that 
rapid  gesture  meant  to  express  plainer  than  words  could 
the  flattering  sentiment :  "  You're  sold,  aren't  you  1 " 

"  Well !    well ! "  said  Mr.  Henry,  while  Mr.  John 
shook  his  head  in  accordance  with  his  brother's  dictum:"^ 
"  well !  well !  I  often  heard  of  the  Dublin  jackeens,  but 
that  chap  beats  all !     He  looks  as  if  he  was  his  own 
grandfather ! " 

Arthur  assured  them  for  their  comfort,  that  they  had 
seen  nothing  of  the  jackeens  yet ;  whereupon  they  held 
up  their  hands  in  simple  wonder. 

This  little  incident  gave  us  a  good  laugh  at  the  ex- 
pense of  our  worthy  friends,  they  themselves  laughing 
as  heartily  as  any  of  us,  and  our  whole  party  were  in 
the  best  of  humor  when  the  carriage  stopped  at  Mr. 
Dillon's  door,  in  Adelaide  Place,  Upper  Baggot  street. 

The  old  lady  met  us  at  the  door  in  full  feather,  viz., 
a  copper-colored  satin  dress,  the  richest  of  old-fashioned 
lace,  in  the  shape  of  a  collar  which  almost  covered  her 
ample  shoulders,  fastened  with  a  brooch  which  might 
have  formed  part  of  the  regalia  of  some  native  prince  in 
the  old,  old  times.  The  good  lady's  head-dress  was 
rather  of  the  fly-away  character,  and  with  its  broad 


> 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


1!^ 


streamers  of  handsome  gauze  ribbon,  looked  as  though 
it  might  take  wing  any  moment.  The  fine,  fresh-colored 
and  somewhat  chubby  face  within  it  was,  at  the  moment, 
in  a  state  of  commotion,  and  her  salutation  was,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  more  characteristic  than  polite  :     ... 

"  What  in  the  world  kept  yoil  so  long  1 — why  you 
might  have  been  ten  times  round  the  city  since ! — for 
goodness  sake,  girls !  do  go  up  and  take  off  your  things, 
— don't  wait  to  dress  any  more,  for  the  people  are  tired 
waiting !  you'll  do  well  enough  as  you  are !  Arthur, 
will  you  just  take  the  two  Mr.  Fitzmaurices  up  to  the 
drawing-room?  Hurry  now,  for  I'm  ashamed  of  my 
life  !  " 

We  were  none  of  us  over  and  above  pleased  to  be 
thus  coerced  into  using  dispatch,  and  we  of  the  feminine 
gender  grumbled  a  little  about  the  awkwardness  of  ap- 
pearing "just  as  we  were,"  but  when  we  once  got  the 
length  of  the  drawing-room,  our  anticipated  embarrass- 
ment quickly  vanished,  foi  he  party  assembled,  consist- 
ing of  six  or  eight,  were  all  old  friends,  and  none  but 
"  the  old  familiar  faces  "  met  our  view.  So  there  was 
no  credit  in  "  being  jolly,  under  the  circumstances,"  as 
honest  Mark  Tapley  would  say,  and  by  the  time  we  had 
shaken  hands  with  the  company  all  round,  everybody 
was  talking  to  everybody,  and  as  nobody  was  in  full 
dress,  we  were  quite  satisfied  with  our  own,  for  dress 
is,  after  all,  but  a  secondary  consideration  among  really 
well-bred  people,  and  those  who  can  appreciable  the 
charm  of  good  society,  are  precisely  those  who  will  any- 
where trouble  themselves  least  about  the  outward  adorn- 


12B 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


i'; 


rt.ent  of  "  the  mortal  coil "  which  encases  the  bright, 
.  cheerful,  happy  spirit.  We  had  a  delightful  evening  of 
it — tea  and  coffee  hauded  round  by  the  gentlemen,  one 
or  two  of  whom  had  the  special  privilege  of  assisting 
Mrs.  Dillon,  who  presided  at  the  table,  placed  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  It  was  an  old  joke,  a  standing  joke, 
that  of  "keeping  the  ladies  in  hot  water,"  but  when 
brought  out  then  with  much  humor  by  young  Barrett, 
the  self-appointed  aid-de-camp^  as  he  said,  of  Mrs.  Dil- 
lon, it  was  as  well  received  as  though  heard  then  and 
there  for  the  first  time.  O'Shaughnessy  was  there  in  a 
*'  bran  new  suit "  of  his  favorite  snuff-color,  and  with  him 
my  brother  George,  then  a  very  handsome  young  man, 
but  looking  some  five  years  older,  poor  fellow !  than  he 
really  was.  It  was  painful  to  me  to  note  the  change 
which  had  come  upon  him.  The  fine  flow  of  spirits  for 
which  he  had  once  been  remarkable,  had  latterly  given 
place  to  a  subdued  and  quiet  demeanor  that  was  all  but 
melancholy,  and  the  boyish  gaiety  which  had  been  wont 
to  cheer  us  all,  had  fled  and  left  scarce  a  trace  behind. 
And  how  inexpressibly  dear  he  was  to  my  lonely  heart, 
that  kind,  fond  brother  of  vhom  any  sister  might  be 
proud.  If  my  poor  aunt  had  lived  to  see  him  then  with 
the  precious  dignity  of  sorrow  ennobling  his  early  man- 
hood, and  the  light  of  a  cultivated  intellect  beaming 
from  his  dark  eye,  she  would  have  claimed  him  proudly 
as  a  Preston,  though  I  question  whether  he  did  not  take 
his  finest  traits,  both  mental  and  physical,  from  the  ma- 
ternal line.  However  that  might  be,  it  is  pretty  certain 
that  George  Preston  was  regarded  with  no  small  degree 


\^ 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


127 


of  admiration  by  more  than  one  Dublin  helle^  whose 
parents,  I  dare  say,  would  have  cut  them  oft'  with  a 
shilling  had  they  dared  to  acknowledge  a  penchant  for 
the  young  law-student,  the  protege  of  old  Shaugh. 

During  the  evening  I  was  honored  (dare  I  say  bored  X) 
with  the  particular  attention  of  Fitzmaurice  Brothers, 
especially  the  junior  partner,  who  was  really  quite  and 
most  insufferably  soft.  My  archaeological  attainments 
had  evidently  made  a  very  deep  impression  on  the  sus- 
ceptible heart  of  Mr.  Johi.,  and  the  chord  touched  there- 
in awoke  a  full  diapason  from  the  kindred  organ  of  Mr. 
Henry.  Once  when  I  made  a  dart  into  the  adjoining 
room  in  order  to  escape  their  most  unwelcome  assidui- 
ties, I  found  Arthur  entertaining  O'Shaughnessy  with  the 
account  of  that  day's  adventures,  if  adventures  they 
might  be  called,  due  prominence  being  given  to  the  part 
I  had  played. 

"  But  here  she  comes,"  said  Arthur,  "  looking  as  de- 
mure as  though  she  had  not  hooked  a  single  fish  to-day, 
when  she  knows  right  well  she  has  two  great  perch  or 
breames — what  are  they,  Elinor  % — dangling  at  her  fin- 
ger-ends." I  was  just  preparing  a  suitable  repartee, 
when  John  Fitzmaurice  spoke  from  behind. 

"  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  we  want^  you  out  here  to  make 
up  a  rubber — you  play  whist,  don't  you  ]  " 

"  Don't  I  ? — I  rather  think  so,  Mr.  Fitzmaurice.  But 
I  say,  I've  been  having  an  eye  to  business  here.  There's 
a  crim.  con.  brewing,  I  fancy,  and  of  course  I'm  in  for 
it."  This  was  said  I  afterwards  found  by  way  of  "  di- 
version "  in  my  favor,  the  worthy  man  fearing  that  tho 


128 


ELINOR   PRESTOir. 


other  might  have  overheard  some  of  the  previous  baditi' 
age,  Arthur  and  I  looked,  as  we  felt,  really  astonished, 
and  poor  innocent  Fitzmaurice  blushed  like  a  peony,  for 
no  other  earthly  reason  but  the  steadfast  gaze  of  the  im« 
moveable  old  lawyer,  fixed  pointedly  on  him. 

"  Why  what  do  you  mean  %  "  said  Arthur.  •*  That  re- 
quires explanation,  my  good  sir — crim.  con,  is  rather  a 
serious  matter." 

*'  It  is,  eh  ? — ^and  you  want  explanation — jusfc  as  if  yoif 
hadn't  told  me  there  a  minute  ago  that  one  of  the  Broth* 
ers  Fitzmaurice — the  youngest  I  think  it  was — ^had  been 
rather  attentive  to  your  wife.  Come  now,  Arthur ! — ^be 
a  man  and  speak  out ! " 

Arthur  was  now  really  embarrassed.  The  thing  waa 
so  very  absurd — the  remark  so  very  unlooked  for — that 
/  believe  a  pistol  discharged  at  his  ear  would  not  have 
startled  him  more.  Still  he  thought  it  necessary  to  say 
something,  as  the  Kerryman  turned  his  eyes  full  upon 
him  with  no  very  agreeable  expression  either. 

"  I — ^I— really,  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  I  never  dreamed 
— upon  my  honor,  this  is  too  bad — too  ridiculous ^*' 

"  Allow  me  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Dillon ! "  said  Fitzmaurice 
very  slowly  and  with  marked  emphasis,  "  that  I  will  not 
permit  any  man  to  introduce  my  name  in  such  an  affair. 
If  you  entertained  such  an  idea  of — the  youngest  FiUs- 
maurice  "  with  an  ironical  bow — "  why  admit  him  to 
your  house  this  evening  1  A  hint  would  have  been  quite 
sufficient,  for  we  are  not  so  dull  of  comprehension  down 
in  Kerry  as  you  Dubliners  may  suppose." 

He  spoke  with  such  energy  and  in  so  vehement  a  tone 


N 


SLnrOA   PRESTON. 


139 


that  it  was  quite  clear  how  much  he  was  offended.  Ar- 
thur looked  reproachfully  at  his  friend  who  burst  luto  a 
hearty  laugh,  such  a  laugh  as  no  one  could  give  but  him- 
self. 

"  Well  now,  really,  Mr.  Fitzmaurice,"  said  he, "  I  give 
you  credit  for  much  genuine  humor.  If  you  hadn't  that 
you  could  never  enter  into  the  spirit  ot  my  joke  so  welL 
Give  me  your  hand,  man  ! — if  I  haven't  the  prospect  of 
making  out  a  ca^e  by  your  instrumentality,  I  have  made 
a  very  pleasant  acquaintance.  You  must  dine  with  me 
te-morrow." 

"  Excuse  me,  sir ! "  replied  Fitzmaurice  very  stiffly, 
**  if  the  whole  was,  as  I  begin  to  perceive,  a  fabrication 
of  your  fruitful  brain,  it  is  still  very  offensive  to  me.  I 
may  be  a  plain,  unpolished  countryman — if  you  will — 
but  I  always  make  it  a  rule  never  to  make  a  jest  of  any> 
thing  that  would  be  offensive  to  God.  If  this  gentleman's 
wife  were  not  his  wife,  ycu  might  quiz  me  about  her  till 
midnight  and  I  wouldn't  take  the  least  offence,  but  being 
his  wife,  or  any  other  man's  wife,  I  will  not  be  taxed 
with  paying  her  particular  attention.  I  have  neither 
heart  nor  eye  in  her,  Mr.  Arthur,  I  do  assure  you.  Mar- 
riage is  a  sacred  institution,  my  worthy  sir,  and  every- 
thing sacred  must  be  respected.  What  think  you.  Miss 
Preston  1 "  he  asked  very  suddenly,  so  suddenly  indeed 
that  I  started  and  blushed,  the  more  so  as  I  had  been 
just  thinking,  "  after  all,  we  cannot  but  respect  you — 
simple  as  you  seem  to  be." 

"  Who— 1 — Mr.  Fitzmaurice  ?  "  I  hesitated,  and  con- 
scious of  that,  blushed  still  deeper.     "I  really  don't 


130 


KLINOR   PRBflTOH. 


I 


know,  but — ^but  I  should  think  you  are  quite  right.  But 
surely  you  take  the  matter  in  too  serious  a  light — if  you 
knew  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy  as  well  as  we  do,  you  wouldn't 
mind  any  thing  he  says." 

"  Provided  he  jest  on  proper  subjects " 

"  Poh,  poh !  man,  you're  forgetting  what  you  cama 
for,"  said  O^Shaughnessy,  and  rising  he  laid  hold  of  his 
arm,  "  you're  what  I  call  the  crow's  messenger,  my  fine 
fellow.  Where's  this  whist-table  1 — I  suppose  you're  all 
tired  waiting.  This  lad  "  looking  slyly  up  at  his  com- 
panion's rather  extensive  whiskers,  wherein  there  was  a 
considerable  sprinkling  of  grey,  "this  lad,  I  say,  saw 
something  within  there  that  attracted  his  attention — a 
sort  of  a  rattlesnake,  or  basilisk,  or  some  other  specimen 
of  natural  history — ahem  ! — EUinor,  my  dear,  are  you 
going  to  join  us  young  people  ?  " 

"  Do,  pray,  excuse  me,  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  I've  got 
to  look  after  that  rattlesnake  you  talk  of.  It  is  not  safe 
to  leave  it  at  large."  And  away  1  went  with  the  old 
gentleman's  merry  laugh  ringing  in  my  ear. 

Whether  it  was  the  visit  of  the  Fitzmaurices  that  put 
it  into  Maria's  head,  or  what,  I  cannot  say,  but  in  a  few 
days  after  their  departure,  she  asked  Arthur  what  woulu 
he  think  of  a  trip  to  Killamey.  Whatever  she  pleased, 
Arthur  said — ^if  she  liked  it,  so  would  he. 

"Oh!  you  dear,  obliging  creature! — what  a  pattern 
husband  you  are,  to  be  sure — well,  then,  hey  for  Killar- 
ney! — that's  the  word! — of  course,  EUinor,  you'll  come!"  # 

"Of  course  I  will  not.  I'm  going  to  spend  a  few 
weeks  at  Cabra,  and  that  will  be  a  go»d  opportunity.'* 


XLINOR   PRXSTOir. 


Idl 


"Very  well,  ma  chhre  amief — ^you'll  deprive  mo  of 
the  trip,  that^s  all,  fur  I  sha^nt  go  a  step  without  j 
But  I  know  very  well  what's  in  the  wind,  my  lady  ! 
you're  afraid  to  venture  into  the  kingdom  of  Kerry  for 
fear  of  being  carried  off  bodily  to  Tralee !" 

"  Nonsense,  Maria ! — how  you  do  run  on ! — ^but,  se- 
riously, if  you  wish  me  to  go — and,  after  all,  I  may  be 
useful  to  you — why,  I'm  quite  willing  to  go.*' 

"  That's  my  own  good  girl.  Now  let  us  go  and  tell 
Mamma  Dillon — come  along,  both  of  you,  it  will  take 
us  all  to  come  round  her.  If  we  can  manage  it,  she 
must  come  too,  for  it  will  do  her  a  world  of  good.  If 
she  goes,  we  can  easily  persuade  father." 

It  was  no  easy  matter  to  reconcile  the  old  lady  to  the 
projected  tour — the  expense  seemed  enormous  to  her 

momical  eyes  ;  and  as  to  herself,  why  it  would  have 

m  just  as  easy  to  persuade  the  Sugar-Loaf  mountain 
to  pay  a  neighborly  visit  to  the  Scalp  as  to  induce  her 
to  shut  up  No.  3  Adelaide  Place.  *'  She  wasn't  so  mad 
yet  as  all  that  came  too,"  she  told  us,  very  impressive- 
ly ;  "  if  some  people  were  a  little  flighty  or  so,  she  thank- 
ed God  she  never  was  that,  the  youngest  day  ever  she 
was.  If  Stephen  liked,  he  might  go,"  she  condescended 
to  say,  knowing  all  the  time  that  Stephen  would  not  go 
unless  she  went.  We  next  tried  our  joint  eloquence  on 
him,  but  it  was  no  use — "  he  couldn't  think  of  going  with- 
out Margaret ;  and,  after  all,  it  wouldn't  be  safe,  per- 
haps, for  all  to  leave  home.  The  business  and  the  house 
were  worth  attending  to."  W  liat  effect  this  might  have 
bad  on  Arthur  there  is  no  saying,  but  Maria  gave  him 


162 


SLINOR   PRSSTOV. 


no  time  to  think.  It  was  nothing  but  bustle,  bustle 
from  morning  till  night,  for  the  next  forty-eight  hours ; 
and  at  the  end  of  that  time  off  we  three  started  for  Kil 
lamey,  in  company  with  Mr.  O'Shaugnessy — how  my 
heart  ached  to  leave  poor  George  behind,  and  he  looked 
so  longingly  after  us,  too,  when  we  started  fronj  the 
Railroad  Depot.  Poor  fellow !  how  often  did  the  tears 
start  to  my  eyes  that  day  when  I  thought  of  him  going 
back  slowly,  slowly  and  alone,  to  resume  his  daily  labor 
in  thstt  low  first-floor  office,  where  he  sat  all  the  midday 
hours  through,  behind  his  desk,  thinking  of  days  gone 
forever,  when  he,  too,  would  haVfe  been  on  the  road,  full 
of  excitement  and  joyous  anticipation !  I  wonder  whether 
he  or  I  felt  saddest  or  loneliest  that  day,  although  he 
was  nearly  alone,  pent  up  all  day,  at  his  cheerless  task, 
and  I  hurrying  on  from  one  new  scene  to  another,  in 
company  with  kind  and  hearty  companions. 


■UHOB   PRESTOV. 


18S 


CHAPTER    V. 


AVING  once  reached  Killarney,  and  es- 
tablished oursdves  in  the  far-famed  "  Lake 
Hotel,"  we  had  little  time  for  thought.  All 
J  was  feeling, — exquisite,  fresh,  and  of  a  kind 
unknown  before.  Every  day  and  every 
hour  of  the  day  during  the  week  that  we 
spent  there  had  its  own  round  of  enjoyment. 
Not  to  speak  of  the  natural  wonders  by  which 
we  were  surrounded,  and  the  thrilling  as- 
sociations borrowed  from  the  old  **Lake 
lore,"  there  were  both  pleasure  and  amusement  to  be 
met  in  the  crowded  parlors  and  drawing-rooms  of  the 
hotel,  where  all  sorts  of  characters  from  all  sorts  of 
places  were  to  be  seen.  It  was  real  enjoyment  to  secure 
seats  near  one  of  the  windows  in  the  drawing-room, 
towards  evening,  when  the  different  parties  began  to 
drop  in  from  their  protracted  rambles,  to  hear  them, 
while  waiting  for  the  tea-bell,  comparing  notes,  and  re- 
tailing their  siifveral  experiences  for  the  public  entertain- 
ment : — ourselves  all  the  time  looking  out  on  the  fairy 
scene, — Castle  Lough  Bay,  with  the  remains  of  the  Mao 
12 


134 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


1: 


7f  I 


I 


Carthys'  ancient  castle ;  Ross  Island,  with  its  historic 
ruin,  once  a  fortress  of  great  strengh,  and  memorable 
from  its  heroic  resistance  to  the  canting  cut-throats  of 
Old  Noll ;  the  fairy  Island  of  Innisfallen,  with  its  once 
splendid  Abbey,  now  roofless  all  and  desolate ;  to  the 
left,  the  gigantic  Tore  rearing  his  huge  form  to  the  skies ; 
further  on  in  the  same  direction  the  Eagle's  Nest ;  and 
before  us,  in  the  distance,  the  loveliest  of  Killarney 
mountains,  the  pastoral  Glena  with  its  hue  of  summer 
verdure — to  see  all  this  through  the  gathering  mists  of 
evening,  listening  all  the  while  with  a  sort  of  dreamy 
consciousness  to  the  running  commentary  going  on 
around.  A  fair-haired  girl — a  Cork  beauty — was  sing- 
ing at  a  distant  piano  to  some  half  dozen  admiring 
swains  one  of  Moore's  delightful  reminiscences  of  Kil- 
larney : 

"  *Twas  one  of  those  dreams  that  by  music  are  brought, 
Like  a  bright  summer  haze  o'er  the  poet's  warm  thought— • 
When,  lost  in  the  future,  his  soul  wanders  on, 
And  all  of  this  life  but  its  swetness  is  gone." 

The  voice  that  sung  these  musical  words  was  certainly 
neither  a  Jenny  Lind's  nor  a  Catherine  Hayes',  but  it 
was  soft  and  tremulous ;  the  latter,  probably,  on  account 
of  some  "  listening  ear "  whose  heart  was  wont  to  re- 
spond  to  those  tones.  It  was,  in  short,  a  voice  well  fitted 
for  a  simple  lay :  and  then  the  hazy,  tender  twilight, 
and  the  thousand  romantic  associations  of  the  place,  all 
conspire  id  to  gWe  a  charm  to  the  unpretending  miih 
strelsy  and  before  the  song  was  half  through,  all  other 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


137 


lounds  were  hushed  throughout  the  spacious  'oom,  and 
we  all  listened  as  it  were  entranced.  Whea  the  last 
Bweet  cadence  died  away,  the  singer,  ashamed  of  the  at- 
tention she  had  excited,  glided  quickly  from  the  room : 
but  ft'om  that  hour  I  felt  a  desire  to  make  her  acquain- 
tance, for  I  felt  that  she  had  a  soul,  and  something  told 
me  that  it  was  a  kindred  soul,  too.  My  pleasant  reverie 
was  broken  by  the  sound  of  a  quick,  rough  voice  al- 
most at  my  ear,  singing,  or  rather  droning  out,  as  if  m 
derision,  those  elegant  lines : 

"  What  a  beauty  I  did  grow — what  a  beauty  I  did  grow," 

ending  somewhat  in  this  wise : 
"  My  mammy  fed  me  with  a  quill  for  fear  to  spoil  my  mouth." 

It  was  the  first  time  we  had  ever  heard  "  a  stave,"  as  he 
called  it,  from  Shaugh'a  mouth,  and  Balaam,  accordingly, 
was  not  more  astonished  when  his  assine  supporter 
opened  her  mouth  and  spoke.  Every  eye  was  instantly 
turned  on  the  queer  old  customer,  who  sat  lilting  his 
charming  ditty  with  such  cool  composure.  At  first  there 
was  a  general  inclination  to  resent  the  evident  attempt 
to  burlesque  the  song  just  ended,  but  one  glance  at  the 
humorous  old  fogy  was  quite  sufficient  to  do  away  with 
any  such  feeling,  and  the  abruptness  with  which  the  dis- 
cordant sounds  commenced,  together  with  the  odd  selec- 
tion made,  tickled  the  audience  so  that  they — I  should  say 
we — bur;^t  into  a  hearty  laugh.  Shaugh  then  stopped 
all  of  a  sudden,  and  looked  around  with  affected  anger : 
"  Well,  really,  for  tourists,  you're  about  the  most  ill» 


138 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


mannered  set  of  people  I  ever  came  across :  here  you 
were,  almost  crying  a  minute  ago  at  the  melody  of  sweet 
sounds  kept  up  through  some  half  dozen  verses,  but  as 
soon  as  I  began  to  tune  my  pipes,  you  hadn't  the  com- 
mx)n  decency  to  let  me  sing  more  than  one  verse — ^hardly 
that  same.  All  because  my  honorable  and  learned — 
humph !  I  mean  my  fair  friend,  is  a  very  charming  lit-  ^ 
tie  noun  feminine,  whilst  I'm  nothing  better  than  a  rough 
old  verb  active — to  sing — to  grunt — to  snarl." 

We  were  summoned  to  tea  at  the  moment,  but  I 
could  see  by  the  looks  and  signs  interchanged  among  the 
company  that  the  old  Dublin  lawyer  was  set  down  as  a 
little  touched  in  the  attic  story. 

Next  day  we  made  the  acquaintance  of  Miss  McCar- 
thy, the  young  vocalist  of  the  previous  evening,  and  I 
found  her  just  what  I  expected,  if  not  something  more. 
She  was  a  gentle,  loveable  creature,  sportive  as  a  fawn, 
yet  mild  in  manner  and  pure  in  heart — a  genuine  Irish 
girl  of  the  very  best  stamp.  Her  talents,  naturally 
good,  had  been  carefully  and  well  cultivated,  and  her 
reasoning  powers  were  far  beyond  those  of  most  girls  I 
had  met ;  yet  there  was  so  little  stiffness  or  formality 
about  her  that  you  constantly  forgot  the  higher  qualities 
of  her  mind  in  the  sprightly  ease  of  her  manners.  Dear 
Ellen  McCarthy !  how  I  love,  even  now,  to  recall  the 
charms  of  your  fair,  girlish  face,  your  slight,  graceful 
form,  and  your  conversation,  so  full  of  mind,  so  brilliant, 
and  yet  so  artless.  She  was  pious,  too,  really,  ^ncerely, 
but  unostentatiously  pious.  Her  parents,  like  my  own, 
were  dead,  yet  you  could  hardly  call  her  an  orphan,  for 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


139 


she  was  blessed  'vt  ith  the  protection  of  a  grandfuther,  the 
kindest  and  most  indulgent,  yet  most  prudent  of  Men- 
tors. He  was  a  man  of  considerable  fortune,  aixl  had 
mixed  all  his  life  in  the  best  society  of  his  native  city, 
and  that  city  the  Irish  Athens.  They  were  a  charming 
pair,  as  memory  sees  them  now, — the  tall,  dignified  old 
gentleman,  looking  as  though  the  blood  of  the  entire 
"  Clan  Mac  Caura "  had  descended  into  his  veins,  and 
was  there  duly  enshrined  as  in  a  costly  casket ; 

"  His  hair  is  white  with  winter-snow 
No  earthly  sun  awaj  may  carrj/' 

and  the  fire  of  mind  and  spirit  is  still  ali\e  in  His  dark» 
southern  features.  He  is  like  some  aged  oak,  strong  and 
proud  even  in  decay,  while  the  fair  Hebe  leaning  on  his 
arm,  looks  like  some  graceful  tendril  clinging  to  its 
venerable  trunk.  Such  were  Denis  John  Mac  Carthy 
and  his  pretty  granddaughter  when  they  crossed  my  path 
at  Killarney.  Our  intercourse  was  then  but  brief — ^a 
few  days  only — but  in  that  short  time  we  knew  each 
other  as  well  as  though  we  had  been  years  and  years  to- 
gether. Although  no  two  men  could  be  more  unlike  in 
most  respects  than  the  lordly  Mac  Carthy  and  the  quick, 
busy,  bustling  attorney,  yet  somehow  they  were  quite 
attached  to  each  other,  I  suppose  because  extremes  are 
said  to  meet ;  and  in  all  our  excursions  through  the  Lake 
region  you  would  generally  find  the  little  old-fashioned 
man  of  parchment  somewhere  in  the  immediate  vicinity 
of  the  calm,  self-possessed,  aristocratic-looking  South- 
erner peering  up  into  his  face,  and  perhaps  standing:  oo 


140 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


tip-toe  as  he  did  so,  while  endeavoring  to  impress  him 
with  some  peculiar  view  of  some  favorite  subject.  And 
it  was  a  picture  too,  in  its  way, — the  contrast  between 
those  two  men,  each  representing  his  own  class. 

As  for  us  juniors  of  the  party,  we  all  four  kept  pretty 
much  together,  though  it  often  happened  that  Ellen  and 
myself  contrived  to  get  separated  from  the  rest  of  the 
party ;  and  it  was  then  that  the  rich,  poetic  fancy,  and 
the  cultivated  taste  of  my  young  friend  showed  to  most 
perfection.  In  ordinary  cases  she  was  rather  abashed 
by  the  presence  of  strangers,  and  seldom  spoke  much ; 
but  when  alone  with  me,  or  with  only  her  grandfather 
besides,  she  could  talk  and  I  could  listen  for  ever. 
What  glorious  reminiscences  of  former  days  fell  from 
the  lips  of  both  parent  and  child,  as  we  strolled  in  the 
summer  moonlight  among  the  wondrous  scenes  where 
the  Mac  Carthys  ruled  as  princes,  and  fought  as  heroes 
m  the  old,  old  time !  The  very  islet  or  promontory 
(for  it  is  now  connected  with  the  mainland  by  a  little 
artificial  causeway)  on  which  our  hotel  was  situate,  bore 
on  its  b*^ld  crown  a  mouldering  fortalice  of  the  Mao 
Carthys,  which  had  originally  given  its  name  to  the  ad- 
joining or  surrounding  bay,  and  the  whole  was  famous 
throughout  the  Ireland  of  that  day  as  Castle  Lough  of 
the  Mac  Carthys,  Then  there  was  Mucruss,  the  Irrelagh 
of  former  days,  the  great  Abbey  of  the  Mac  Carthys, 
and  still,  even  in  its  ruined  state,  one  of  the  greatest  at 
tractions  of  Killarney.     But  alas ! 

**  The  Mac  Gaura  no  more  comes  with  gift  in  his  hand, 
For  the  sons  of  the  Saxon  are  lords  of  his  land," 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


141 


and  so  Ellen  whispered  as  at  early  mom  we  stood  to- 
gether beneath  the  branches  of  that  weird  yew,  the 
growth  of  centuries,  which  shades  the  mouldering  pillars 
of  the  cloisters,  and  makes  noonday  dim  as  twilight 
hour.  "  Sad,  is  it  not  ?  "  said  the  fair  descendant  of  the 
local  princes,  "  to  see  such  fabrics  as  this  of  Mucruss 
hurrying  to  "  ^cay,  in  silence  and  neglect,  and  the  chiefs 
who  built  them  for  the  honor  of  God  and  the  good  of  re- 
ligion, driven  as  they  have  been  from  hearth  and  home, 
wandering  landless  and  friendless  men  over  the  broad 
earth,  while  strangers, — upstart  strangers, — revel  in  their 
ancient  halls — that  is,  if  they  be  not  too  time-worn  for 
them — and  lord  it  over  their  broad  domains !  Ah !  El- 
inor !  it  was  a  strange  doom  that  fell  on  the  native  ar- 
istocracy of  Ireland, — driven  out  to  make  place  for 
Cromwellian  and  Williamite  troopers — ours,  for  instance 
—the  eldest  branch  of  the  great  Milesian  tree!  But 
hush — here  they  ;|ome! — don't  you  think  Mrs.  Dillon 
looks  fatigued  ?  " 

This  was  the  way  in  which  Ellen  usually  turned  the 
conversation  when  we  chanced  to  have  our  tete-d-tete  in 
terrupted. 

That  same  evening  we  sailed  over  by  moonlight  to 
Ross  Island,  examined  at  our  leisure  the  ruins  of  its 
stately  fortress — the  stateliest  and  strongest  of  southern 
castles — the  last  great  stronghold  of  the  Confederate 
Catholic  nobles.  By  the  time  we  had  made  the  circuit 
of  the  fortress,  and  given  a  sigh  to  the  truth  of  the  old 
classical  proverb — Sic  transit  gloria  mundi — we  were 
well  prepared  to  do  justice  to  a  cold  supper,  slily  smuggled 


142 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


I 


in  our  boat  by  the  joint  contrivance  of  Arthur  and  Mr. 
O'Shaughnessy,  the  best  and  most  provident  of  travel- 
ling companions.  What  moonlight  that  was,  to  be  sure, 
and  what  a  scene  was  that  over  which  it  threw  its  silveir 
beams — Killarney's  blue  water — the  placid  water  of  the 
Lower  Lake,  dotted  with  its  fairy  islands!  Killarney'a 
dark,  many-colored,  tufted  woods,  and  its  world-famous 
mountains  standing  like  giant-sentinels  around,^with 
three  ruined  abbeys  in  sight,  and  the  ancient  keeps  of  the 
Mac  Carthys  and  O'Donoghoes, — the  noblest  of  them  all 
overshadowing  our  heads,  its  ivy  rustling  in  the  soft  night-  ^• 
wind  as  if  in  concert  with  the  ripple  of  the  waves  at  our 
feet.  Surely  a  fairer  scene  was  never  witnessed  on  this 
earth,  full  of  beauty  as  it  is,  and  the  heavens  above  were 
covering  meet  for  such  a  scene. 


"Off  in  the  "West  where  the  lake's  blue  breast 
Reposed  like  an  angel  of  light  at  r«et» 
And  the  rich  rays  there  seemed  sppllts  of  air 
That  wanton'd  about  in  their  silver  hair." 


Ah !  it  was  a  scene  never  to  be  forgotten — ^'twas,  in- 
deed,  "  too  lovely  for  earth  " — too  lovely,  at  least,  to  be 
long  enjoyed  by  us  poor  pilgrims  of  an  hour. 

The  soothing  influence  of  the  scene  was  irresistible. 
Even  Maria,  usually  so  gay  and  light-hearted,  was,  for 
the  time,  quite  subdued  and  almost  pensive,  and  Mr. 
O'Shaughnessy  confessed  afterwards  that,  he  never  felt 
so  queer  in  all  his  life  {repose  being  something  altogether 
foreign  to  his  disposition)  as  he  did  that  night  on  Ross 
Island.  ' 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


143 


For  iny  part,  I  was,  as  it  were,  in  a  delicious  trance, 
wherein  the  past  and  present  were  softly,  mellowly 
blended.  All  was  peace  within  and  without.  I  could 
have  sat  there  for  hours,  listening  to  the  wind  sighing 
amongst  the  surrounding  foliage,  like  the  spirits  of  the 
departed,  and  the  soft  murmuring  sound  of  the  waters 
as  they  playfully  kissed  the  strand.  Half  unconsciously 
I  gave  utterance  to  one  of  my  thoughts : 

**  What  exquisite  taste  they  must  have  had  who  chose 
such  sitc3  for  the  homes  of  religion!  On  the  banks  of 
these  charming  Lakes  we  have  no  less  than  three  abbeys 
— ruined  now,  to  be  sure,  but  grand  and  beautiful  even 
in  decay." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  McCarthy,  who  happened  to  be 
seated  near  me — "Yes,  my  dear  young  lady,  I  rather 
think  the  sites  were  well  chosen,  on  principles  of  the 
truest,  most  refined  taste — considering  that  the  nobles 
who  gave  them  were  '  mere  Irish,'  and  the  monks  to 
whom  they  were  given  were  some  of  the  *  ignorant 
drones '  of  *  the  dark  ages.'  I  should  like  to  see  a  fra- 
ternity of  our  modern  literati^  now,  making  up  a  librf\ry 
such  as  *  those  monks  of  old '  were  wont  to  have,  by  the 
labor — the  hard,  toilsome  labor  of  their  own  hands, 
when  every  single  copy  of  a  book  had  to  be  copied  word 
for  word  with  the  pen!  I  wonder  how  certain  of  our 
dandified  nineteenth-century  men,  who  love  to  talk  and 
write  of  *  the  good-for-nothing  lazy  monks  of  the  middle 
ages,'  would  look  at  a  ponderous  folio  of  some  of  the 
fathers,  if  it  were  given  them  to  write  out  in  clear,  legi- 
ble characters  fr^m  beginning  to  end  with  their  own 


144 


ELISOR   PRESTON. 


hands — not  to  speak  of  those  wonderful  illuminated 
characters  and  devices  wherewith  the  laborious  monks 
of  the  olden  time  delighted  to  ornament  their  pages ! 
Oh !  wouldn't  our  fine  gentlemen  authors  make  wry  faces 
at  the  very  thoughts  of  such  an  undertaking !  I  suspect 
it  would  make  every  hair  of  their  *  imperials  '  or  mous* 
(aches  stand  on  end."  This  was  rather  a  long  speech 
for  the  old  gentleman,  and  he  drew  a  long  breath  when  it 
was  ended,  and  quaffed  a  long  draught  of  Guinness's  XX, 
as  it  were  to  refresh  himself  after  so  unusual  an  efforts 

"  I  wonder  had  they  as  good  wine  as  that  in  those  old 
days  you  speak  of — shouldn't  think  they  had,  eh  ?  "  and 
Shaugh,  as  he  spoke,  held  up  his  glass  between  his  right 
eye  and  the  moon  to  catch  the  ruddy  sparkle  of  the  fine 
old  Burgundy,  which  his  own  golden  key  had  drawn 
forth  from  the  most  secret  recesses  of  the  Lake  Hotel. 
"  I  drink  to  your  good  health,  Mr.  McCarthy  :  by  and 
by  m  give  you,  to  be  drunk  in  solemn  silence — faith  ! 
its  all  solemn  silence  here ! — the  memory  of  your  ve/i- 
erahle  ancestors, — some  of  whom,"  he  added,  in  a  lower 
tone,  looking  over  his  shoulder  as  he  spoke,  "  some  of 
whom  may  be  within  hearing.  It  wasn't  safe  meddling 
with  them,  I'm  told,  when  they  were  in  the  flesh,  and  I 
wouldn't  take  it  upon  me  to  slight  them  now  that  they're 
dead,  especially  when  we've  the  honor,  ahem  ! — of  sup- 
ping— maybe  trespassing — on  their  grounds.  Ladies! 
— ^a  glass  of  wine ! — there's  some  Mi>deira  that  the  land- 
lord passes  his  word  for,  so  it  must  be  good,  eh  ?  ha ! 
ha!  ha!" 

Mr.  McC^hy  listened  to  this  characteristic  flow  of 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


145 


talk  with  a  grave  smile,  bent  his  stately  head  slightly 
at  the  mention  of  his  own  name, — lower  by  a  good  deal 
at  the  allusion  to  his  progenitors  ;  and  when  the  lawyer 
had  fniished  and  set  down  his  glass,  he  condescended  to 
say  with  a  kind  smile : 

"  Allow  me  to  correct  a  slight  mistake  under  which 
you  appear  to  labor,  my  good  friend !  while  acknowl- 
edging as  I  do  your  very  kind  and  polite  attention — 
Ross  Island  belonged  not  to  the  Mac  Carthys,  but  to 
their  tributaries,  the  O'Donoghoes." 

*'  Oh !  well,  it's  all  the  same  ;  they  were  all  chips  of 
the  same  block,  you  know,  and  followed  the  same  busi- 
ness— it's  all  one !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  1 " 

"  Why,  then,  what  would  I  mean,  Mr.  Denis  McCar- 
thy, only  everything  that's  civil  and  respectful  ?  I  know 
what  the  Mac  Carthys  were  as  well  as  any  man  living — 
high  and  mighty  chiefs,  every  mother's  son  of  them ;  but, 
npon  my  honor !  there  were  some  very  bad  Irishmea 
^amongst  them  for  all  that.  Pooh !  pooh  1  man,  don't 
knit  your  browt  that  way!  sure  you  know  all  about 
Donough — Donough  the  Red — that  was  one  of  the  first 
to  kneel  and  swear  allegiance  to  Renry  Plantagenet : 
but  what  is  that  to  you  or  me? — he  was  a  great  prince  in 
his  day — a  powerful  prince — but  ke^s  dead,  and  Planta- 
genet's  dead,  many  hundred  years  ago,  so  what  are  their 
doings  to  us  now  ?  Take  another  glass  of  wine,  and 
we'll  ijrink,  as  I  said,  to  the  dead  Mac  Carthys — I  mean 
to  their  memory.  Now,  sir — ^fill,  if  you  please — I'm 
waiting." 
13 


146 


ILINOR   PRBSTOir. 


There  was  no  possibility  of  keeping  anger  against  a 
man  like  this,  and  happily  the  old  gentleman  hud  too 
much  good  sense  to  take  up  so  silly  a  quarrel,  so  the 
toast  Mas  drank  in  solemn  silence,  as  Shaugh  said,  and 
very  soon  after  we  quietly  left  the  island  to  its  solitude 
and  silence,  and  returned  (nothing  loath,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed) to  the  cheerful  drawing-room  in  the  hotel,  where 
all  was  light,  and  life,  and  gayety — strange  contrast  to 
the  scene  we  had  just  left. 

On  the  following  day  we  paid  a  visit  to  "  Innisfallen's 
lovely  isle,"  gave  our  tribute  of  admiration  to  the  re- 
mains of  its  noble  abbey — spoke  of  the  literary  labors 
of  its  former  occupants,  their  noble  contribution  to  the 
chronicles  of  the  nation,*  and  the  treasures  of  ancient 
lore  which  for  ages  enriched  the  three  abbeys  of  Kil- 
larney,  giving  a  name  to  the  lakes  themselves,f  and 
shedding  a  halo  of  supernatural  glory  even  now  over 
the  natural  beauties  of  that  romantic  region.  Whilst 
we  were  admiring  the  effect  of  the  luxuriant  foliage  which, 
as  it  were,  drapes  the  ruins,  and  gives  them  a  character 
of  such  peculiar  grace,  Maria  slily  asked  Arthur  whether 
he  had  seen  anything  on  his  continental  travels  to  exceed 
that.  The  poor  fellow  blushed  deeply.  He  was  already 
heartily  ashamed  of  his  former  folly,  and  any  allusion 
to  it  was  by  no  means  agreeable.  For  my  part,  I  was 
sorry  Maria  put  the  question,  but  for  herself  its  visible 


*  The  well-known  AnnaU  of  InnU/aUenf  one  of  the  most  authentio 
fragments  of  Irish  historj. 

t  Loch-Lein,  <  r  the  Lake  of  Learning,  bj  which  our  fathers  knew 
tCillamej. 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


i47 


effect  only  made  her  laugh.  With  all  her  other  good 
qualities,  she  was  certainly,  and  at  all  times,  deficient  in 
that  delicate  tact  which  saves  the  feelings  of  others.  As 
for  Arthur,  he  had  only  to  make  the  best  of  it.  Shaugh- 
looked  at  him  through  his  half-closed  eyelids,  his  parch- 
ment countenance  puckered  into  a  humorous  grin,  while 
the  Mac  Carthys  listened  with  polite  attention. 

"  Well !  really,"  said  Arthur,  "  I  can't  say  I  ever  did 
see  anything  like  it," — he  cast  a  reproachful  look  on  his 
provoking  partner  ;  "  there  are  not  many  Innisfallens  to 
be  met  in  foreign  countries." 

"  Rather  say  none,  my  dear  Mr.  Dillon  :  I  have  seen 
some  of  the  finest — "  Mr.  McCarthy  was  here  cut  short 
by  an  exclamation  from  O'ShaughnesSy,  who  had  been 
amusing  himself  like  a  light-hearted  old  boy  flinging 
pebbles  into  the  still-lake  and  watching  the  expanding 
circles  they  produced. 

"  Do  you  see  that  boat  coming  across  from  the  hotel  1 " 
Certainly  we  all  saw  the  boat. 

"  Do  you  see  the  two  stiff  figures  in  Quaker  hats  sit- 
ting bolt  upright  in  the  stern  1 "  We  saw  them  too. 
"  Well !  I  shoudn't  wonder  if  them  were  the  Brothers 
Fitzmaurice !  If  it  isn't  them,  I'll  never  hazard  a  guess 
on  any  given  subject  during  my  natural  life." 

*•  But,  my  dear  sir,  you  don't  mean  the  Fitzmauricea 
of  Tralee,  do  you?"  inquired  Mr.  McCarthy, 

"Who  else  ?  I  should  like  to  know  where  else  you'd 
find  a  pair  of  brothers  like  that !  There,  now, — look, 
Elinor,  look — look,  Mrs.  Dillon !  they  have  off  their 
Quaker  hats  now  to  you  ladies — didn't  I  tell  you  ? — 


148 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


?        « 


well!  sure  enough,  that's  lucky — we'll  have  some  fun 
now,  anyhow !  "  and  the  hilarious  lawyer  almost  skip- 
ped for  joy  as  he  returned  the  salutation  of  the  brothers 
— unmistakaljly  our  Tralee  friends. 

"  Well !  this  is  really  an  odd  coincidence,' "  said  Ellen 
to  me  in  a  low  voice ;  "  everywhere  we  have  gone  this 
summer,  we  were  sure  to  meet  the  brothers  Fitzmaurice. 
They  are  really  a  tiresome  pair,  and  I  must  ask  grand 
papa  to  leave  here  to-morrow,  just  because  they're  come. 
How  very  provoking ! " 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  my  dear  Ellen  ?"  I  laugh- 
ingly inquired ;  "  have  they  been  making  love  to  my 
sweet  friend  ?  " 

•  **  Love !  "  she  evasively  replied — "  why,  if  you  knew 
them  better  you  wouldn't  ask  the  question.  I  do  be- 
lieve they  make  love  to  every  unmarried  woman  they 
meet — either  one  or  other  of  them  as  chance  may  be. 
I  wish  they  would  get  married,  both  of  them,  and  then 
perhaps  there  might  be  an  end  of  their  flying  over  the 
country.  I  believe,  Elinor,  these  two  men  are  ubiquitous 
— I  give  you  my  word  I  do  !  They  once  appeared  to 
us  quite  suddenly  on  the  very  summit  of  a  wild  moun- 
tain in  Connemara,  where  we  thought  no  more  of  meet- 
ing them  than  if  they  had  been  sunning  themselves  on 
the  Mountains  of  the  Moon.  Just  look,  now — they're 
going  to  land — the  tiresome  crejitures !  " 

By  this  time  I  was  laughing  outright,  and  her  grand- 
father evidently  understood  her  feelings,  and  was  rather 
amused  by  the  strength  of  her  antipathy  to  the  inoffen- 
five  brothers,     "  ELen,  my  dear,"  said  he,  with  hia 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


149 


courtly  smile,  taking  her  hand  as  he  spoke,  *'  here  are 
some  old  friends  of  ours — ^you  will  be  delighted  to  see 
them,  I  am  quite  certain.  What !  you  will  not  go  to 
meet  them  1 — well !  you  are  a  wayward  girl."  And  he 
glanced  at  me.  "  I  must  e'en  go  alone  to  bid  them  wel- 
come. You  see  we  are  at  present  in  possession  of  the 
island — ^like  Alexander  Selkirk,  *monarchs  of  all  we 
survey,' — so  it  devolves  on  us  to  do  the  honors  on  be- 
half of  the  venerable  religious  whose  home  we  have  in- 
vaded— good  morning,  Messrs.  Fitzmaurice  ! — I  am  re- 
joiced to  see  you  again,  although  I  did  not  expect  that 
pleasure  on  the  present  occasion." 

If  he  was  pleased,  the  brothers  were  doubly  pleased 
to  see  the  whole  party — of  course  excepting  Ellen  and 
myself — Shaugh  was  in  ecstasies.  If  truth  must  be 
told,  he  had  found  exploring  ruins  rather  dull  work, 
little  relieved,  if  any,  by  gliding  over  still  waters  or 
bivouacing  under  forest  trees  amid  the  deep  silence  of 
the  woods.  Change  of  scene  was  to  him  the  end  and 
object  of  travel,  and  for  anything  else  in  the  way  of 
^ghls  he  had  little  relish,  save  and  except  an  extra  fine 
sirloin  of  beef,  or  a  juicy,  well-cooked  quarter  of  the  de- 
licious Kerry  mutton,  or  a  brace  of  lake  wild-fowl  or 
mountain-game, — these,  or  such  as  these,  with  the  ad- 
dition of  some  long-preserved  wine  of  a  favorite  vintage 
— ^he  was  rather  a  connoissev/r  in  wines — were  the  sights 
that  had  power  to  stir  the  blood  within  our  old  friend's 
heart,  and  make  his  small  eyes  twinkle  with  the  cheer- 
fullest  of  glee.  Anything  in  the  way  of  fun,  too,  or 
oddity  of  character,  was  always  keenly  relished  and 


150 


ELINOR    PRESTOir. 


made  the  most  of  by  him.  The  Fitzmaurices  had  at 
forded  him  rare  pleasure  in  Dublin  by  the  freshness  of 
their  quaint  simplicity,  and  they  came  now  "  in  the  nick 
of  time"  when  he  was  just  getting  tired  of  Killamey, 
Extra-hearty,  then,  was  the  shake-hands,  and  the  "  How 
d'ye  do  1 "  with  which  the  worthy  lawyer  greeted  the 
landing  of  each  brother.  The  Dillons,  and  myself,  too, 
were  tolerably  sincere  in  our  welcome,  and  the  frank 
courtesy  of  old  Dennis  John  almost  compensated  for 
the  visible  coldness  of  his  fair  granddaughter.  So  we 
were  all  in  excellent  humor — even  Ellen  was  much  too 
geni'dl  to  let  an  idle  whim  throw  a  chill  on  the  warm 
glow  of  the  hour. 

"  But  what  brought  you  here  at  all  1 "  cried  Shaugh 
— "  I  mean,  how  did  you  know  we  were  over  here 
— lovely  spot,  isn't  it  1 "  looking  round  with  anything 
but  an  admiring  eye;  "but  a  word  in  your  ear — its 
devilish  lonesome.  For  your  life  don't  tell  these  lovers 
of  nature  and  of  art — ha — ha — ^ha! — what  I  said,  or 
they'd  cut  the  acquaintance — they  v/ould — they'd  vote 
me  a  bear  or  an  ourang-outang  before  ever  I  left  the 
island !  But  how  did  you  know  we  were  here — or  did 
you  know  it  ?  " 

To  be  sure,  the  Brothers  Fitzmaurice  did  know  it. 
They  had  seen  our  names  in  the  hotel  book  imme- 
diately on  their  arrival ;  so  as  soon  as  they  swallowed 
their  quantum  sufficit  of  creature-comforts,  vulgarly 
called  breakfast,  they  got  a  boat  and  were  rowed  over  iu 
d<  uble-quick  time  "  to  the  isle  of  the  blest." 

These  last  words  from  Mr.  John — who  did  not  often 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


151 


l^enture  on  quotations — were  pointed  by  a  slftling  bow  to 
us  ladies,  in  which  courteous  act  he  was  ably  and  promptly 
assisted  by  his  brother.  Ellen,  grossly  irreverent  to 
the  memory  of  poor  Gerald  Griffin,  answered  only  by  a 
very  disdainful  toss  of  her  pretty  head,  while  Maria  and 
I  bowed  with  what  we  intended  for  much  graciousness. 

As  far  as  I  myself  was  concerned,  the  arrival  of  the 
Fitzmaurices  made  little  difference.  It  is  true  I  was  in 
no  humor  for  quizzing  at  the  time — the  scene  was  far 
too  purely  beautiful,  the  place  too  sacred  for  trifling,  but 
neither  was  I  in  a  humor  to  be  ruffled  by  anything ;  so  I 
listened  to  the  animated  chit-chat  going  on  among  the 
Ilillons,  the  Fitzmauricos,  and  merry  old  Shaugh,  with 
a  sort  of  dreamy  languor — a  half  consciousness  that  was 
very  soothing.  While  Mr.  M«cCarthy  and  the  brothers 
were  retracing  some  reminiscences  of  Connemara,  hu- 
morous not";  '^  travel,  I  was  repeating  to  myself  (and 
by  this  time  v  •  v/ere  leaving  the  island) : 

"  Sweet  Innisfallen !  fare  thee  well, 

May  calm  and  sunshine  long  be  thine, 
How  fair  thou  art  let  others  tell, — 
To/eel  how  fair  shall  long  be  mine. 

"  Sweet  Innisfallen  !  long  shall  dwell 
In  memory's  dream  that  sunny  smile 
Which  o'er  thee  on  that  evening  fell 
When  first  1  saw  thy  fairy  isle. 


**  'Twas  sight,  indeed,  too  bless'd  for  one 
Who  had  to  turn  to  paths  of  care — 
Through  crowded  haunts  again  to  run, 
And  leave  thee  bright  and  silent  there. 


152  ELINOR   PRESTOir. 

"  No  more  unto  thy  shores  to  come, 
But  on  the  world's  rude  ocean  toss'd, 
Dream  of  thee  sometimtis  as  a  home 
Of  sunshine  he  had  seen  and  lost." 

Many  a  time  since  then  I  have  thought  of  that  "  fairy 
isle  "  and  its  air  of  unearthly  peace,  when  the  waves  of 
trouble  have  surged  and  boiled  around  me,  and  I  felt 
myself  jostled  out  of  the  way  by  the  busy,  bustling, 
thriving  world. 

We  had  now  seen  most  of  what  was  to  be  seen,  or  at 
least  what  is  usually  seen  by  visitors  at  Killarney. 
Most  of  us  had  climbed  the  steep  sides  of  Tore  and 
Mangerton,  and  were  amply  repaid  for  our  toil  and 
trouble  by  the  magnificent  prospect  we  enjoyed;  we 
had  heard  the  traditional  bugle  of  Killarney  awake  the 
wondrous  echoes  of  the  Eagle's  Nest, 

"  When  the  notes  of  the  bugle  had  wafted  them  o'er 
From  Denis'  green  iale  to  Glena's  wooded  shore/' 

and  one  and  another  began  to  think  it  time  to  return 
homeward.  There  was  nothing  now  to  be  gained  by 
delaying ;  and  people  at  home  would  begin  to  look  out 
for  us.  Great  was  the  disappointment  of  the  Fitzmaurice 
Brothers  when  they  found  us  about  to  start ;  why  they 
had  but  just  come,  and  here  we  were  flying  away. 
Couldn't  we  stay  a  day  or  two  longer?  They  could 
show  us  many  things  we  hadn't  seen  yet.  But  all  in 
vain :  Arthur  said  his  father  and  mother  would  be 
growing  anxious — Maria  was  dying  to  be  at  home  again 
— Shaugh  knew  very  well  his  business  was  going  to  the 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


153 


dogs  for  want  of  him,  (very  flattering,  thought  I,  to  poor 
Geerge  Preston !  )  and  myself  had  nothing  to  say  ; — be- 
ing merely  a  hanger-on  to  the  party  I  had,  of  course,  no 
voice  in  their  deliberations.     So,  at  least,  I  thought. 

On  the  night  before  we  left  Killarney,  I  was  honored 
with  a  formal  proposal  for  my  hand  from  Mr.  John 
Fitzmaurice.  Unfortunately  for  him  (perhaps  for  my- 
self in  a  worldly  sense)  my  eyes  were  so  darkened  that 
I  could  not  see  those  qualities  in  him  which  I  would  fain 
see  in  a  husband,  and  I  told  him  civilly  that  he  must 
excuse  me :  I  did  not  think  I  should  ever  marry,  but 
even  if  I  did,  it  would  not  be  for  some  time — the  troub- 
les in  my  own  family  were  too  recent. 

"  Might  he  hope,  then,  that  after  a  year  or  two — sup- 
pose he  waited—" 

"  By  no  means,  Mr.  John  Fitzmaurice.  I  wish  to 
deal  frankly  with  you — do  not  wait  a  single  day  on  me, 
for  though  I  esteem  you  highly,  I  can  never  think  of  you 
in  the  way  you  seem  to  desire.  Do  not  wait,  I  beg  of  you ; 
I  shall  be  most  happy  to  receive  wedding  favors  when  I  re- 
turn to  town,  if  you  can  oblige  me  by  sending  them."  And 
with  a  saucy  nod — I  feel  now  that  it  was  both  saucy  and 
provoking — and  an  arch  smile,  I  escaped  from  the  room, 
leaving  good  Mr.  John  to  digest  his  disappointment  at 
his  leisaro.  How  much  he  felt  it  at  the  time  I  really 
cannot  say, — but  I  should  think  it  was  not  much,  for  in 
the  morning  he  and  his  brother  saw  us  off,  both  of  them 
looking  as  well  and  quite  as  contented  as  usual. 

While  I  think  of  it  I  may  as  well  mention  here  that 
honest  John  took  me  at  my  word,  or  rather  acted  on 


154 


ELINOR   PREBTON. 


my  suggestion,  for  although  the  wedding-favors  never 
came  to  hand,  we  actually  saw,  only  a  few  weeks  after, 
a  flourishing  account  of  his  marriage  in  a  provincial 
paper  sent  to  me  by  post.  Happy  be  his  wedded  life 
and  smooth  its  course,  for  John  Fitzmaurice  was  indeed 
a  man  "  in  whom  there  was  no  guile  ! "  May  his  yoke- 
fellow and  he  glide  as  peacefully  and  as  inoffensively 
through  life  as  his  friends  could  wish  or  he  desire. 
Whether  Henry  ever  went  and  did  likewise  I  am  not 
prepared  to  state ;  I  have  a  sort  of  notion  that  he  did 
not.  One  wife,  one  housekeeper  was  quite  enough  for 
the  two  attached  brothers,  to  whom,  I  am  sure,  the 
thoughts  of  separate  dwellings  would  be  something  in 
the  highest  degree  preposterous.  So  with  Anastasia 
Burke  for  a  third  partner,  it  is,  I  think,  morally  certain 
that  their  moderate  desires  were  fulfilled,  especially  if 
Anastasia — I'm  almost  sure  they  called  her  Anty — is 
anything  of  a  "conversable  woman"  or  talks  in  any 
degree  "  like  a  book." 

Peace  be  with  you,  then,  Fitzmaurice  Brothers,  best 
and  kindest  of  Tralee  merchants !  When  I  now  think 
of  you,  it  seems  as  though  you  had  been  shapely,  well- 
proportioned,  but  rather  quaint  figures  reflected  across 
my  path  from  a  magic  lamp,  flitting  from  before  my 
eyes  on  that  sunny  morning  at  Killamey,  and  withdraw- 
ing, as  it  were,  into  that  mythical  world  whence  you 
came  forth  on  that  other  sunny  day  in  Adelaide  Place, 
Dublin! 

The  evening  after  our  arrival,  I  was  summoned  to  the 
drawing-room  to  see  Geerge,  who  had  just  heard  of  our 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


155 


the 


return  by  the  kind  attention  of  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy  who 
had  called  at  his  boarding-house  for  that  purpose. 

"And  he  found  you  in,  George  ?  "  I  asked  reproach- 
fully! ,  for  I  had  often  begged  of  him  to  take  more  exer- 
cise, and  profit  by  his  hours  of  leisure  to  snatch  a  little 
recreation. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  in  a  desponding,  listless  tone ; 
"  I  was  just  sitting  with  a  volume  of  Shakspeare  in  my 
hand,  but  I  wasn't  reading — I  was  thinking." 

"  But  why  were  you  not  out,  George,  enjoying  the 
beauty  of  the  evening  ?  " 

"Well!  that's  what  I  could  hardly  tell  -  ou,  Elinor! 
— I  used  to  enjoy  a  good  smart  walk,  or  better  still,  a 
ride — in  days  when  I  had  a  horse.  You  remember  the 
Shetland  ponies  that  my  poor  father  bought  for  Alfred 
and  me — how  proud  we  were  of  them,  and  how  we  used 
to  enjoy  a  canter  on  the  Rathmines  Road.  When  the 
days  of  the  Shetland  ponies  were  past  away,  and  Alfred 
left  me  alone,  I  had  you  or  Carry  to  come  out  for  a  ride 
— ^but  now — I  have  neither  horse  nor  companion — "  he 
stopped — he  could  go  no  further,  and  I,  though  sharing 
his  emotion,  tried  to  appear  composed. 

"But  couldn't  you  walk? — walking  is  even  better 
exercise  than  riding  1 " 

George  suddenly  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  me  full 
in  the  face  :  "  Elinor ! "  said  he,  "  I  am  very  lonely — I 
make  no  companions — I  am  poor,  and  cannot  afford  to 
spend  money  on  amusements,  which  I  think  I  could 
not  relish  were  they  within  my  reach.  No  one  asks 
me  to  go  on  a  tour,  but,  thank  God,  you  are  more 


156 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


fortunate ! — do  you  know  what  I  have  been  thinking  1 " 
I  answered,  of  course,  in  the  negative,  wondering  all  the 
time  that  he  asked  me  no  questions  about  Killarney,  or 
my  journey  to  and  fro. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  going  to  America." 

"  To  America,  George ! — surely  you  are  not  in  ear- 
nest!" 

"  I  never  was  more  in  earnest,  Elinor.  Mr.  O'Shaugh- 
nessy  says,  you  know,  that  I'm  not  the  cut  for  a  lawyer. 
Now  if  that  is  the  case — and  I  do  rather  think  it  is — 
I'll  try  something  else  before  I  get  any  older.  Any- 
thing to  obtain  an  independence.  Here  I  don't  like  to 
be  making  experiments,  and  perhaps  failing  ii^^  every- 
thing I  undertake.  You  see,  Elinor,  I  have  some  of  the 
old  Preston  pride  in  me  yet,"  he  added,  with  a  smile — 
it  was  a  sad  smile  too  :  "  I'll  go  to  America,  where  no- 
body knows  me,  and  I'll  see  then  whether  fortune,  the 
capricious  jade!  has  declared  irrevocably  against  me. 
But  she  shall  not  conquer  me,  Nell !  for  if  all  fails  me, 
I'll  begin  at  the  very  foot  of  the  ladder !  " 

I  would  fain  have  remonstrated  against  this  sudden 
project,  but  I  must  confess  there  was  something  in  it 
that  took  my  fancy.  There  was  somewhere  far  down 
in  my  heart  or  mind,  a  latent  love  of  adventure — a  de- 
sire to  see  the  world  abroad ;  and  though  I  did  not  at 
once  say  so,  I  made  up  my  mind  in  an  instant.  One  or 
two  faint  efforts  I  made  to  persuade  George  that  he  had 
better  remain  in  Dublin,  but  he  laughed  them  all  to 
scorn.  Seeing  this  I  threw  off  the  mask,  and  declared 
that  I  too  would  go  to  America. 


\ 


BLIVOR   PRESTON. 


157 


"  What !  you,  Elinor ! — you  brave  the  perilous  i  cean 
—you  expose  yourself  to  the  unknown  trials  of  an  era 
igrant's  life  ? — you,  Elinor  Preston,  go  seek  your  for- 
tune in  a  strange  laud  1 — no,  no  ! — ^you  could  never 
think  of  it ! " 

"  And  why  not,  pray ! — what  prospects  have  I  here  ? 
My  funds  have  dwindled  down  to  fifteen  pounds,  so  I 
must  soon,  or  indeed  at  once,  think  of  doing  something. 
In  fact,  it  was  against  my  own  convictions  that  I  stayed 
here  so  long,  for,  with  all  their  kindness,  I  cannot  divest 
myself  of  the  feeling  of  dependence  ;  and,  oh !  George, 
but  the  bread  of  dependence  is  bitter !  " 

"  Well !  Nelly,"  said  George,  and  his  fine  countenance 
brightened  up  considerably,  "I'm  glad,  and  yet  I'm 
sorry  that  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  come.  But 
on  the  whole,  I  think, — I'm  sure,  we'll  both  be  happier 
together.  So,  in  God's  name,  we'll  see  about  it  very- 
soon." 

"  How  soon  ?  " 

"As  soon  as  you  like.  We'll  drive  out  to  Clon- 
gowes  and  to  Cabra,  and  see  Alfred  and  the  girls.  I 
know  Carry  will  be  in  despair " 

"I  think  not,  George.  I  have  noticed  latterly  a  quiet, 
heartfelt  resignation  growing  on  dear  Carry :  if  I'm  net 
much  mistaken,  the  world  has  lost  it's  hold  on  her. 
You  remember  what  she  told  our  mother  on  her  death- 
bed?" 

"  Certainly  I  do."        ' 

"  Well !  1  think  she  has  already  made  an  offering  of 
her  life  to  God,  for  worldly  matters — even  where  you 
14 


158 


ELIlfOR   PRESTON. 


or  I  arc  concerned — seem  to  have  now  little  or  no  interest 
for  her.  Depend  upon  it,  she  will  give  us  no  trouble. 
Her  lot  is  cast." 

Here  we  heard  the  shrill  voice  of  Mrs.  Dillon,  senior, 
coming  scolding  along  the  passage.  She  could  hardly 
command  herself  sufficiently  to  shake  hands  with  George 
when  she  did  make  her  appearance.  "  I  declare  to  you, 
Mr.  Preston !  it's  enough  to  drive  any  sensible  woman 
mad  to  see  how  things  go  in  this  house.  Why,  there's 
some  people  in  it  that  have  no  more  notion  of  saving 
than  if  they  were  made  of  money  !  Well !  at  any  rate, 
it  won't  be  Stephen  or  me  that  will  come  to  the  wall — 
"we  have  enough  with  a  blessin'  to  last  us  our  lifetime. 
So  let  them  that  makes  the  waste  feel  the  want — that's 
all  I  have  to  say  ! — oh,  dear  me  !  dear  me ! !  " 

Neither  George  nor  I  well  knew  what  specific  to  ap- 
ply to  the  good  lady's  wounded  feelings,  so  we  said 
very  little,  and  were  well  pleased  when  the  entrance  of 
Maria  and  the  old  gentleman  relieved  us  from  our  very 
awkward  position. 


ILIKOR    PRESTOS. 


159 


CHAPTER   VI. 


OTIIING  could  equal  the  surprise  wHh 
which  the  Dillons,  old  and  younf^,  heard 
of  our  determination.  "  What  on  earth 
would  take  us  to  America — hadn't  we  a 
very  good  America  at  home  ?  "  the  old  lady 
asked. 

"  Nothing  to  depend  upon,  ma'am,' 
was  George's  answer.  "  Elinor  and  I  have 
both  to  make  out  our  living  the  best  way 
we  can,  and  I  think  somehow  we  shall  do 
it  with  more  energy  and  spirit  in  a  new  and  strange 
country  where  nobody  knows  anything  of  our  antece- 
dents. Here  we  have — at  least  my  sister  has — the  gall- 
ing trammels  of  aristocratic  birth  and  gentle  breeding 
to  operate  against  her  when  she  comes  to  *  take  a  sit- 
uation :'  the  position  she  has  lost  will  be  as  a  wall  of 
brass  before  her,  scathifig  her  energies  and  chilling  her 
hopes.'  In  a  strange  country  there  will  be  none  of  that : 
people  will  take  us  just  as  they  find  us,  and  we  can 
humble  ourselves  to  almost  any  employmcLt  that  naay 


160 


ZLINOR   PRIBTOK. 


offer  d  fair  chance  of  success,  without  having  to  encoun- 
ter tJie  hollow  pity  of  pretended  friends. 

When  called  upon  for  my  opinion,  I  entirely  coin- 
cided with  George ;  and  the  matter  was,  of  course,  settled* 
The  most  pertinacious  resistance  was  offered  by  Mr. 
O'Shaughncssy,  but  even  he  was  at  last  convinced,  though 
much  against  his  will.  From  that  day  forward  W6 
were  gradually  making  our  preparations,  carefully  hus- 
banding our  small  means,  and  calculating  almost  to  a 
certainty  on  having  a  tolerable  balance  in  our  hands 
after  all  the  preliminary  expenses.  But  such  was  not 
the  will  of  God.  We  were  not  to  go  forth  with  our 
pockets  as  well  lined  even  as  we  had  expected.  About 
a  week  before  the  time  appointed  for  our  departure^  I 
was  summoned  one  day  in  great  haste  to  Cabra  to  s^ 
Carry,  who  was  "  not  at  all  well,"  the  messenger  said. 
When  I  got  there,  I  found  her  delirious :  she  had  con- 
tracted a  pleurisy  of  some  kind,  most  probably  from  a 
heavy  cold,  and  had  been  three  days  in  a  regular  fever 
before  Emily  would  hear  of  my  being  sent  for.  She 
had  been  hoping  every  day  to  see  a  favorable  change, 
but  finding  that  the  disease,  on  the  contrary,  became 
daily  more  alarming,  she  was  forced  at  last  to  give  in. 

'*  God  pity  you,  my  poor  sister,"  she  said,  as  she  met 
nie  at  the  door,  "  I  fear  there  is  another  blow  still  await- 
ing you:  I  know  you  will  not  murmur  against  the  will 
of  Gt»d — and,  besides,  there  is  yet  hope.  Our  sweet 
Carry  may  get  through  :  the  doctor  says  she  has  youth 
on  her  side,  and  a  pretty  good  constitution." 

"  But,  alas !  Emily's  first  words  had  struck .  such  a 


ELIN  m    PRE8T0K. 


161 


chill  to  my  heart,  that  I  could  not  bring  myself  just  then 
to  hope.  Carry  was  ill — very  ill — perhaps  tl}  iiig,  so  I 
would  hardly  take  time  to  answer  Emily,  hut  ran  as 
fast  as  my  limbs  would  bear  me  to  the  siek-room.  Lit- 
tle comfort  awaited  me  there.  The  Carry  who  lay  be- 
fore me,  moaning  and  muttering  incoherently,  with  a 
flushed  face  and  a  restless,  unconscious  eye — her  fair 
tresses,  of  which  in  happier  days  we  had  been  all  so 
proud,  already  clipped  and  shorn  by  the  doctor's  orders 
— ah!  no,  that  was  not  the  bright,  beaming  Carry  to 
whom  I  used  to  go  to  unbosom  myself  of  my  little  sor- 
rows, ever  sure  of  finding  consolation  in  her  kind  word 
and  kinder  smile.  Ah!  no,  that  was  not — it  could  not 
be — my  Carry,  with  whom  I  had  been  consulting  but  a 
few  days  before  on  various  little  matters  connected  with 
my  outfit.  But  Carry  it  was,  unhappily  for  me,  and  as 
the  attending  physician  began  to  apprehend  that  her  mal- 
ady might  assume  a  contagious  form,  as  oflci  hap:  ens 
with  bad  pleurisies,  Emily  and  I  agreed  that  she  must 
be  removed  at  once,  lest  the  pupils  of  the  institution 
might  be  exposed  to  danger,  or  the  interests  <»f  the 
house  be  at  all  aflfected.  The  kind  sisters  were  at  first 
very  unwilling  to  let  their  favorite  pup!l  be  thus  re- 
moved ;  but  George  had  now  arrived — I  sent  R>r  him  a« 
soon  as  I  had  seen  Carry — and  we  were  all  tliree  im- 
movable in  our  decision.  It  was  no  easy  matter  to 
procure  a  lodging  for  our  poor  unconscious  patient,  as 
no  one  was  willing  to  risk  taking  her  in,  for  fear  of 
her  disease  turning  out  to  be  fever.  A'i-  length,  how- 
ever,  George  succeeded  in  finding  a  widow  lady  who 


l1iinfl"ti!Bifillii 


162 


ELINOR   PRBSTON. 


had  recently  lost  her  last  child,  and,  as  she  said,  with  a 
n:eliuicholy  smile,  she  had  nothing  to  fear  if  it  were  a 
fever,  and  a  bad  one  too.  "  I  have  only  myself,  now," 
said  she,  in  a  voice  scarcely  above  a  whisper,  "  and  life 
is  not  sc  very  valuable  to  me  that  I  should  throw  away, 
for  fear  of  losing  it,  a  golden  opportunity  of  doing  good. 
Bring  the  young  lady  here  at  once; — my  accommoda- 
tions arc  none  of  the  best,  as  you  see,  but  you  will  find 
my  house  perfectly  clean,  and  I  will  have  great  pleasure 
in  doing  what  I  can  for  your  dear  sister." 

George  thanked  her  with  a  full  heart,  and  the  tears 
were  in  his  eyes  when  he  came  back  with  his  glad 
tidings^ 

"Glad  tidings,"  I  repeated,  and  I  fancy  the  smile 
which  accomp  iiicd  the  words  was  anything  but  cheer 
ing. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  George,  with  forced  gayety  ; 
"  isn't  it  glad  tidings  for  you  to  hear  that  I  have  found  a 
tender,  compassionate  heart  to  minister  to  poor  Carry — 
ay  !  and  a  door  that  is  hospitable  enough  to  receive  her? 
Go  along  now,  you  faint-hearted  girl !  and  help  Emily 
to  get  our  patient  ready." 

But  even  when  we  had  her  rj^-dy,  we  did  not  get  off 
as  soon  as  George  had  calculated.  There  was  not  one 
member  of  the  community  who  did  not  come  to  take  a 
parting  look  at  the  unconscious  sufferer,  and  to  print  a 
kiss  on  the  burning  brow  where  every  vein  was  throb- 
bing with  fever.  And  thankful  they  were  in  after  days 
tliat  they  had  done  so,  for  it  was  the  last  sight  they 
ever  had  of  Caroline  Preston,  when  bhe  was  slowly 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


163 


driven  from  their  door  lying  on  a  feather  bed  sent  by 
good  Mrs.  Butler,  with  George  at  one  side  and  me  at 
the  other.  Emily  followed  us  down  the  little  avenue 
that  led  to  the  high  road,  and' when  the  carriage  reached 
the  gate,  she  got  up  on  the  step,  and  had  the  door  open- 
ed to  get  another  look  and  another  kiss  of  her  young 
sister,  the  playir  ate  of  her  childish  da^s.  She  had  kept 
up  well  till  then,  but  nature  for  the  moment  triumphed, 
and  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Yet  another  sacrifice ! "  she  murmured,  as  she  hung 
over  the  stricken  lamb  of  the  flock.  "  Oh,  Carry  !  Carry  !  I 
hoped  to  have  had  you,  at  least, — you  of  all  the  world,  but 
it  seems  God  w  ishes  to  try  me  more  and  more :  every  hunmu 
tie  must  be  broken  before  the  soul  can  reach  to  Him. 
Farewell,  then,  Carry  !  to  Him  I  give  you  up— you  are 
His,  and  so  am  I,  too.  May  His  will  be  done  in  us  • 
Good-bye,  Elinor, — good-bye,  George  !  you  are  a  lonely 
pair — you  two.  But  remember  you  have  a  host  of 
friends  in  heaven,  and  a  father  and  a  dear  mother  who 
can  and  w  ill  help  you  in  your  need  !  Go  on  now  ! — you 
needn't  speak — 1  know  all  you  would  say.  Farewell, 
Carry,  till  we  meet  in  heaven !  " 

She  was  gone,  the  door  closed,  and  we  driving  slowly 
along  the  high  road  before  a  word  escaped  either  ray 
brother  or  me,  and  very  little  was  said  on  either  side 
till  we  turned  down  a  bridle-road  and  stopped  at  Mrs. 
Butler's  door.  Tt  was  an  humble  but  very  neat  cottage, 
with  a  small  grass  plot  in  front,  a  passion-flower,  and 
some  luxuriant  wood-bine,  gracefully,  though  thinly, 
shading  its  white- washed  wall.    It  had  the  greenest  of 


1 

I 

I:'; 


I 


lU 


ELINOR   PRBSTON. 


little  hall-doors  and  the  brightest  of  brass  knockers,  and 
seemed  as  though  peace,  and  order,  and  contentment  were 
sure  to  abide  within.  And  they  all  three  might  be  dwell- 
ers there,  if  it  depended  on  the  presiding  genius.  It  was 
just  the  quiet,  sheltered,  humble  home  I  would  have 
chosen  even  then ;  and  had  Carry  been  restored  to  health 
I  might  have  been  tempted  to  remain  there.  Mrs.  But- 
ler was,  as  we  expected,  both  a  kind  and  a  skilful  nurse : 
and  between  her  and  me  and  our  good  old  doctor.  Carry 
had  no  lack  of  care  or  attention.  But  it  was  all  in  vain. 
Her  days  were  numbered.  Before  the  week  was  ended, 
the  Great  Summoner  visited  our  calm  retreat ;  and  at 
his  bidding,  the  fever  relaxed  its  hold,  a  brief  interval 
of  consciousness,  but  of  utter  prostration  followed — just 
as  though  to  give  time  for  the  final  parting,  and  the  re- 
ception of  the  last  sacraments :  then  the  tongue  lost  its 
function,  the  damp  of  death  bedewed  the  pallid,  pulse- 
less brow,  the  failing  hands  were  first  extended  to  George 
and  myself,  then  clasped  on  the  small  ebony  crucifix 
which  had  been  some  time  before  placed  on  Caroline's 
bosom — the  glazed  eyes  were  turned  on  each  of  us  mourn- 
ers for  the  last  time,  with  their  wonted  look  of  uifection  ; 
— then  the  eyelids  fell — the  long  lashes  lay  motionless 
on  the  colorless  cheek,  but  still  the  lips  moved  as  though 
endeavoring  to  articulate  the  responses  to  the  Litany 
for  the  Dying  which  George  was  reading, — a  famt  smiie 
rested  for  a  moment  on  the  wasted  though  still  lovely 
features,  a  slight  motion  of  the  limbs  was  perceptible, 
and  then  all  was  still.  Another  link  of  our  chain  was 
broken;  our  loveliest,  our  brightest  had  taken  wing  from 


ILINOR   PRESTON. 


165 


this  sad  world ;  yet  no  cry,  no  sob  escaped  us— our  an- 
guish was  too  deep  for  such  relief — as  we  half-uncon- 
..  Jously  followed  Mrs.  Butler  in  reciting  the  Prayers 
for  the  Dead.  Alas !  we  had  thein  almost  by  heart — 
at  least  they  were  so  familiar  as  to  need  no  effort  of 
memory.  A  day  or  t  vo  aiore,  and  another  grave  was 
added  to  the  group  in  Glassnevin  ;  and,  in  a  week  or  so, 
the  name  of  Caroline  Mary  Preston,  aged  19,  was  added 
to  the  inscription  (now  fearfully  long)  on  the  family 
tombstone. 

When  about  to  leave  the  cemetery  after  the  inter- 
ment, when  most  of  our  friends  and  acquaintances  were 
gone— only  the  Dillons  and  O'Shaughnessy  remaining — ■ 
who  should  we  see  but  Susy  Broadigan,  advancing  with 
her  accustomed  waddling  gate  to  the  foot  of  the  new- 
made  grave,  and  there  dropping  on  her  knees.  Much 
surprised  to  see  her  there,  we  all  waited  a  few  minutes 
to  let  her  finish  her  prater,  but  seeing  that  she  still  re- 
mained motionless,  George  went  over  and  laid  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder. 

"  You  had  better  be  moving  home,  Susy,"  he  said,  in 
a  faltering  voice ;  "  it  looks  like  rain." 

"  Ah  wisha !  Masther  George,  dear,"  said  Susy  from 
under  her  deep  hood ;  "  sure  I  can't  go  till  I'm  done  my 
prayers.  Didn't  I  walk  every  inch  o'  the  road  on  the 
edge  of  my  foot  just  to  see  the  last  shovelful  put  on  my 
darlin'  Miss  Carry,  and  to  offer  up  a  few  pather  an'  aves 
over  her  as  soon  as  she'd  be  covered.  Let  me  alone, 
Masther  George,  dear,  an'  I'll  be  lor  ever  obleeged  to 
you."     The  toars  which  fell  fast  from  her  eyes  attested 


166 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


the  sincerity  of  her  words,  and  George  begged  her  in  a 
soothing  tone  not  to  cry  so — it  would  do  no  good 

Susy  cut  him  very  short.  "  Not  to  cry,  is  i-t,  sir  ?  ah ! 
then,  sure  it  'id  be  no  wonder  if  it  was  tears  o'  blood  I'd 
cry,  let  alone  what  it  is, — sure  I  know,  Masther  George, 
it'll  do  no  good — ochone,  no  !  but  won't  it  take  some  o' 
the  heavy  load  off  o'  my  heart  ? — och !  asthore  you  war, 
Miss  Carry,  an'  is  it  you  that's  lyin'  there  under  the  could 
clay  this  blessed  and  holy  day,  an'  poor  ould  Susy  Broad- 
igan  above-ground  to  cry  you !  "  A  fresh  burst  of  weep- 
ing stopped  the  faithful  creature's  utterance,  and  before 
she  had  again  recovered  her  voice,  George  and  Arthur 
Dillon  had  taken  her  by  force  to  the  carriage  and  lifted 
her  in,  for  the  clouds  were,  by  this  time,  black  and 
threatening  overhead.  Much  did  she  grumble  and  loudly 
protest  against  this  forcible  injection,  saying  that  "a 
coach  was  no  place  for  the  likes  o'  her,  especially  with 
the  quality  in  it — sure  its  on  Shank's  mare  she  came, 
an'  she'd  go  back  the  same,  please  God  ! " 

Her  remonstrances  were  vain,  however,  for  Mrs.  Dil- 
lon would  not  suffer  her  to  leave  the  carriage,  assuming 
her  that  "  she'd  be  wet  to  the  skin  before  she  got  into 
town,  and  then  they  might  have  her  death  on  them." 
So  poor  Susy  was  forced  to  give  in,  and  after  a  dry  joke 
or  two  from  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  which  she  could  not 
refrain  from  answering  "with  her  usual  curt  humor,  sho 
drew  her  hood  further  over  her  face  and  slunk  back  into 
the  corner  of  the  carritige  so  as  to  take  up  as  little  room 
as  possible.  George  and  Arthur  returned  to  town  on 
horseback.    That  night,  when  we  were  about  separating, 


ELINOR   PRE8T0N. 


167 


my  brother  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  his  eye^ 
filled  with  tears  :  •*  Carry  is  no  trouble  to  us  now,"  said 
he,  "  what  think  you,  Nelly  ! — aren't  our  obstacles  fast 
disappearing  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  "  I  answered,  "  death  can  do  wonders  in  that 
way.  He  is  the  true  Faugh  a  balach.^^  My  sorry  at- 
tempt at  a  jest  made  George  smile,  and  wiCh  that  faint, 
wintry  smile  on  his  lip,  he  left  the  door,  too  hastily  as  I 
thought.  He  afterwards  told  me  that  he  was  afraid  of 
my  asliing  how  our  funds  stood.  He  need  not  have 
feared  any  such  thing,  for  I  could  as  soon  have  asked 
him  at  the  moment  how  much  it  had  cost  us  to  bury 
Caroline. 

Although  our  scanty  funds  were  fearfully  diminished 
by  our  late  expenses,  yet  our  preparations  went  on  vig- 
orously, and  in  the  course  of  a  few  days  all  was  com- 
pleted to  our  satisfaction.  We  thought  ourselves  in  a 
fair  way  of  getting  off,  when  Mrs.  Arthur  Dillon  took 
it  into  her  head  to  make  an  addition  to  the  family  in  the 
person  of  a  chubby  little  girl,  whose  arrival  created  such 
a  sensation,  and  was  altogether  so  important  an  event, 
that,  of  course,  our  departure  was  postponed  for  another 
week  or  two.  O'Shaughnessy  and  I  stood  for  the  little 
damsel,  who  received  the  names  of  Margaret-Elinor : 
"  I  wanted  to  have  given  you  the  name,  my  dear !  "  said 
Maria,  "  and  have  had  la  petite  plain  Elinor,  but  I  found 
from  certain  hints  thrown  out  that  it  would  have  been 
as  much  as  the  maternal  favor  was  worth — I  might  have 
taken  myself  and  baby  off  to  Canadian  wilds  with  you ; 
BO  you  must  e'en  be  content  with  the  half-compliment  I 


108 


ELINOR   PRISTON. 


was  able  to  pay  you."  Of  course,  I  expressed  my  en- 
tire  satisfaction. 

We  had  a  great  christening  of  it  as  soon  as  Maria  was 
declared  out  of  danger.  A  regular  Irish  christening  it 
was,  consisting  of  all  the  friends  and  relations  of  the 
united  families  of  Dillon  and  Delany.  Mirth  and  joy 
abounded,  and  many  a  costly  gift  was  made  the  uncon- 
scious little  one  :  armlets  and  necklaces  came  showering 
in,  together  with  richly-embroidered  caps,  robes,  and  all 
the  other  et  ceteras  which  go  to  to  make  up  a  baby  ward- 
robe. "  Humph !  "  said  Mrs.  Dillon,  senior,  as  she  suc- 
cessively put  by  the  rich  presents  ;  "  Humph !  there's 
the  old  story  over  again !  *  he  that  has  a  goose  will  get  a 
goose ! ' — if  baby  hadn't  a  rag  of  its  own  to  cover  it,  it 
might  be  naked  long  enough,  Vm  thinking,  for  all  the 
presents  it  'id  get." 

There  was  unfortunately  too  much  truth  in  the  good 
woman's  caustic  observation,  but,  of  course,  it  was  not 
meant  for  the  ears  of  the  disinterested  donors. 

A  day  or  two  after  the  christening,  when  Maria  was 
able  to  appear  in  the  drawing-room,  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy 
came  one  evening  and  gathered  us  all  together  "on  busi- 
ness." George  had  come  with  him,  for  as  yet  he  had 
been  sharing  the  old  man's  bachelor  accommodations  in 
the  dingy  little  house  in  Dominick  street. 

When  we  had  all  taken  our  places,  the  worthy  law- 
yer looked  with  a  complacent  air  from  out  his  gold- 
mounted  spectacles.  For  a  moment  his  keen  glance 
rested  on  me ;  then  it  passed  on  to  George's  face,  and 
there  rested.  . 


ILIKOR  PRESTON. 


69 


"  Master  George,"  said  he,  "  ahem  ! — I  trust  youVe 
prepared  to  admit  that  you'll  never  do  any  good  at  the 
law." 

"  Quite  so,  my  dear  sir."  We  all  looked  at  the  speak- 
ers and  then  at  each  other  in  blank  amazement.  George 
smiled,  but  the  old  man  kept  quite  grave  and  serious. 

"Not  the  ghost  of  a  chance  at  the  bar,  eh? — well, 
you're  going  to  America  to  push  your  fortune  :  what  do 
you  mean  to  do  there —  tell  me  that,  now ! " 

"Do!  why,  ril  do  the  best  I  can,  certainly.  I'll  turn 
scrivener,  clerk,  shopman,  merchant — who  knows  " — the 
poor  fellow  looked  round  and  tried  to  smile,  but  this 
time  the  attempt  was  unsuccessful. 

"  To  be  sure  you  will,"  gruffly  said  O'Shaughnessy ; 
"  I  know  you'll  feel  mighty  comfortable  measuring  tape 
and  ribbons  to  the  belles  of  Quebec  or  Montreal,  prais- 
ing up  other  people's  wares,  and  wearing  your  life  away 
— your  young  buoyant  life — ^behind  a  counter.  Why, 
man,  the  ghost  of  your  Aunt  Kate  would  be  walking  in 
to  you  some  day  in  its  grave-clothes  ;  she'd  be  *  revisit- 
ing the  glimpses  of  the  moon,'  depend  upon  it,  to  avenge 
the  outraged  dignity  of  the  family.  And,  another  thing, 
Master  George !  you  wouldn't  stay  at  such  a  business 
one  month — /  know  you,  my  fine  fellow  ! " 

George  laughed — he  was  amused,  but  evidently  not 
displeased.  "  But  what  am  I  to  do,  sir  ? — you  say,  and 
I  confess  it,  that  I  am  only  losing  time  at  the  law — what 
am  1  to  do  ?  " 

"  Go  into  the  army ! "  grunted  Shaugh,  and  then  he 

drew  his  lips  together  in  a  way  peculiar  to  himself. 
15 


170 


KLINOR    PRESTOir. 


My  brother  started,  and  his  face  was  crimson  in  a 
moment.     "  That's  easier  said  than  done,  Mr.  O'Shaugh 
nessy — beskies " 

"  Besides  nonsense  ! — none  of  your  humbugging  now 
—you  know  you  always  had  a  hankering  after  the  army 
—you  can't  deny  it !  " 

"  Well !  1  own  I  had,  sir,  but  that  was  in  days  when 
the  purchase  of  a  commission  was  within  the  range  of 
probability — now,  it  were  idle  to  think  of  any  such 
thing."' 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  George,  not  a  bit  of  it,"  and  the  old 
man's  eyes  twinkled,  ana  he  rubbed  his  fat  hands  to- 
gether in  a  little  ecstasy  of  mysterious  enjoyment.  "  I 
see  you're  all  on  the  tenter-hooks,  as  the  saying  is;  so, 
George,  the  short  and  the  long  of  it  is  that  I've  got  a 

commission  for  you.     You  know  Lord  D is  an  old 

friend  of  mine,  and  through  his  interest  at  the  Horse 
Guards  I  got  the  commission — ^ay  !  without  paying  one 
penny."  The  old  man  said  nothing  about  a  certain  long- 
standing debt  which  would  almost  have  paid  for  the 
commission,  and  which  he  cancelled  in  favor  of  his  no- 
ble friend  and  former  client.  George  said  nothing,  but 
he  seized  O'Shaughnessy's  hand  and  shook  it  warmly, 
the  tears  standing  in  his  eyes.  But  the  next  moment 
his  eye  met  mine,  and  his  countenance  fell. 

"Never  mind  Elinor,"  said  this  true  friend,  "I  didn't 
forget  her  ;  I  managed  it  so  that  you're  to  exchange  with 
a  young  fellow  whose  regiment  is  now  in  Canada.  1 
know  Nell  is  tired  of  us  all,  and  I  want  to  let  her  see  her 
hobby  out.    She'll  be  glad  to  come  back  to  us  yet,  bad 


1_. 


BLTNOR   PRESTON. 


171 


:)n  in  a 
Shaugb 

ig  now 
e  army 

8  when 
tnge  of 

Y 


such 


the  old 
ids  to- 
It.  "  I 
is;  so, 

got  a 
an  old 
Horse 
g  one 

long. 
>r  the 
is  no- 
?,  but 
rmly, 
»ment 

lidn't 

with 

a.    1 

eher 

bad 


as  we  are.  B«t  to  Catholic  Canada  she  wants  to  go,  and 
there  she  shall  go,  if  we  fitted  out  a  boat  fur  her  own 
self." 

"But,  dear  sir !  how — how  shall  we  thanl^  you — how 
repay  youl"  I  faltered  out. 

"As  to  thanks,  keep  them  to  yoursolf,  children! — ^aa 
to  the  payment,  you  have  only  to  think  now  and  then  o! 
roMgh  old  Sh:uigh,  when  you're  far  away  among  stran- 
gers— and  to  let  him  know  if  you  ever  want  a  friend  ! — 
good  evening  to  you  all — George!  are  you  coming  home 
— ha!  ha!  it  will  soon  be  a  lonely  home — I  think  I  must 
look  out  for  a  wife — eh,  Mrs.  Dillon  ! — you'll  help  me, 
eh ! — that's  a  decent  woman — much  obliged  to  you  !  " 

The  days  which  intervened  between  that  and  our  de- 
parture were  days  of  bustle  and  joy,  and  sorrow  and 
hope,  all  strangely  jumbled  together.  There  was  so 
much  to  be  done  and  so  many  people  to  be  seen  and 
taken  leave  of  that  we  were  all  in  a  flurry,  and  I  think 
the  Dillon  stud,  had  they  voices  to  speak,  would  have 
loudly  protested  against  the  whole  affair,  for  they  were 
almost  constantly  in  harness.  George  was  all  at  once 
elevated  to  the  seventh  heaven  of  hope  and  expectation, 
and  80  exhilarating  wa»  the  effl'ct  of  the  change  in  his 
prospects,  that  not  even  the  parting  from  Emily  and  Al- 
fred could  depress  his  spirits  to  anything  like  their  re- 
cent level.  Neither  Emily  nor  Alfred  was  at  all  pleased 
with  George's  choice  of  a  profession,  and  they  said  they 
would  only  have  to  redouble  their  prayers  for  him,  now 
that  he  was  about  entering  on  a  career  of  increased 
peril. 


172 


ILINOR   PRESTOir. 


"  Why,  surely,"  sjiid  George,  with  a  guy  laugh,  "  you 
don^t  consider  the  military  professlou  more  dangerous 
to  the  soul  than  the  legal !  only  think  a  moment,  my 
reverend  brother,  and  you,  as  a  son  of  Loyola,  will 
rather  congratulate  me  on  my  choice.  The  path  which 
led  your  founder  to  perfection  cannot  surely  bo  unsafe 
for  me.  Where  can  you  point  to  a  lawyer  on  the  cal- 
endar? whereas,  you  can't  deny  that  it's  full  of  soldiers," 

"You  forget  St.  Alphonso  Liguori — "  said  Alfred, 
with  ft  sad  smile. 

"  Oh !  well,  what  if  I  did — it  wasn't  by  law  he  got  on 
the  calendar  either.  Come,  come,  Alfred !  no  more 
misgivings — you  know  as  well  as  1  do  that  a  man  may 
save  his  soul  in  the  army,  as  well  as  at  the  bar  or  in  the 
senate— 


)) 


"  Yes,  but  his  peril  is  greater — his  temptations  more 
numerous  :  a  man  wilfully  entering  on  such  a  career  is 
like  one  who  commits  himself  to  the  raging  ocean, 
believing  that  he  can  stem  and  resist  its  force.  Ah ! 
George,  my  dear,  my  only  brother !  would  to  God  that 
you  had  consulted  me  before  you  to«>k  this  step  !  As 
for  our  good  friend,  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  I  wonder  at 
him "  ♦ 

"  Not  a  word  against  him^  for  your  life,  Father  Alfred ! 
— he  is  a  glorious  old  fellow,  and  hiis  a  heart  as  big  as 
an  ox.  Good-bye,  my  dearest  brother !  companion  of 
my  childhood !  we  are  certainly  taking  contrary  paths 
on  Ciirth,  but  with  the  assistance  of  yc»ur  prayers  and 
those  of  our  dear  Emily,  even  I  will  hope  to  meet  you 
aU  iu  heaven.     We  may  meet  again,  evea  here,  but  if 


ELINOR    PRE8T0X. 


173 


wo  shoulfl  not,  he  well  assured  th.it  y^ur  lirothcr,  with 
Gmrs  help,  will  live  and  die  as  hernmcj*  a  Preston." 

Durin<^all  thisdisconrso  I  had  sat  in  tearful  silencQ  with 
my  hand  elaspcd  in  that  of  Alfrinl,  and  now,  when  tho 
final  moment  was  come,  that  dear  brother  transferred 
my  hand  to  George,  saying  in  a  low  tremulous  voice: 
**  There,  George,  to  your  care  I  confule  our  Elinor 
— watch  over  her,  I  adjure  you  in  GtxVs  name,  for  in  a 
land  of  strangers  she  will  have  only  you.  You  must 
be  to  her  more  than  a  brother,  George,  since  God  has 
deprived  her  of  all  but  you." 

"  And  so  I  mean  to  be,"  was  George's  answer — ho 
could  say  no  more.  Then  Alfred  t«v>k  a  hand  of  each 
of  U8  and  pressed  them  fervently  within  his  own,  raised 
his  eyes  to  heaven  for  a  moment  in  earnest  supplication, 
then  dropping  the  hands  he  held,  he  retired  from  the 
room.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  his  strength  was  exhaus- 
ted, for  his  pale  cheek  and  bloodless  lip  could  not  fail  to 
strike  even  less  interested  beholders.  Dear  Alfred ! 
how  spiritual  he  looked  in  that  last  sad  moment  with  his 
long  fair  hair  overshadowing  a  brow  of  almost  feminine 
"whiteness,  and  his  thin,  delicate  features  already  im- 
pressed with  the  withering  touch  of  the  disease  which 
had  broken  the  first  clasp  of  our  happy  family.  Ilia 
deep  blue  eyes — my  mother's  eyes — were  full  of  soul, 
and  in  that  moment  of  unrestrained  affi-ction  they  looked 
on  us  as  tenderly  as  hers  were  wont  to  do :  their  ex- 
pression touched  our  hearts,  and  as  we  drove  away  from 
the  gate,  George  murmured.  "I  did  him  wrong  once, 
poor  fellow — he  has  a  heart,  and  a  good  one  too— •"  we 


174 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


both  involuntarily  raised  our  cyos  to  tho  uppor  wiinlows 
at  the  momt-nt,  ami  at  one,  hastily  thrown  up,  stood  Al- 
frod,  lookinj'  after  us  with  tearful  eyes,  as  we  knew  by 
the  handkerchief  in  his  hand.  Geor;^o  made  a  parting 
gesture,  I  another,  and  then  the  carriage  swept  round  a 
turn  in  the  road,  and  t)ur  brother  was  seen  no  more. 

On  the  following  day  we  embarkod  in  one  of  the  Liv- 
erpool steamers,  there  to  take  our  passage  in  one  of  the 
Black  Ball  Line  of  Packets  for  New  York.  A  number 
of  our  friends  accompanied  us  on  board,  and  when  the 
gangway  was  about  to  be  removed,  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy 
took  us  aside  for  a  moment.  Shaking  hands  with  me 
he  squeezed  a  tiny  parcel  into  my  hand,  tellinji^  me  to 
put  it  away  carefully  till  I  got  to  the  other  side,  "and 
now,  once  for  all,  1  tell  you,  children,"  said  he,  "if  you 
should  ever  find  yourselves  in  want — mind  you  in  want 
•^-don't  hesitate  a  moment  but  write  to  mo,  and  we'll 
see  what  can  be  done,  although  you  are  turning  your 
backs  on  me  in  my  old  age.  And  mind  if  you  ever 
come  back  to  Ireland,  come  straight  to  my  little  place, 
and  if  you  see  the  name  of  Terence  O'Shaughncssy  on  it, 
go  in,  in  God's  name,  sure  of  finding  a  warm  welcome, 
— if  there's  some  other  name  on  it,  or  none  at  all,  you 
may  say,  *  God's  will  be  done — poor  old  Shaugh  is  gone 
home  at  last,  and  we  may  look  elsewhere  for  a  friend. 
There,  children,  don't  cry — what  do  you  laugh  at,  Mas- 
ter Oeorge! — because  I'm  calling  you  a  chift/  still,  I 
suppose,  and  you  feeling  yourself  already  a  soldier — I 
will,  then,  George ! — for  didn't  I  see  you  when  you  were 
a  child  and  a  small  child  too,  and  that  not  so  many  years 


XLINOR    PRESTON. 


175 


Rgo  either — so  none  of  your  nianish  airs  witli  mo.  But 
as  I  live  there's  thti  gangway  going  to  be  moved,  and 
here's  Maria  ami  Artliur,  and  oM  Stephen,  and  Madam 
Dillon,  all  to  kiss  and  shake  hands — cut  it  short  now, 
friends  all,  un'ess  you  want  to  have  a  trip  across  tJvc 
channel.' " 

The  blessings  and  farewells  were  all  exchanged,  the 
last  friendly  iiand  was  shaken,  the  last  *'God  speed  you" 
Mas  vibrating  on  the  air,  there  was  a  hurrying  of  feet 
over  the  gangway — it  was  snatched  away  with  profes- 
sional  quickness,  and  the  water  already  divided  us  from 
tho  warm-hearted  friends  whom  we  were  leaviinx 
perhaps  for  ever.  There  they  stooti  in  a  group, 
watching  us  with  tearful  eyes,  as  wo  watched  them,  and 
when  the  distance  between  us  had  increased,  waving  hati 
and  handkerchiefs,  until  their  forms  waxed  dim  and 
Tuisty  in  tho  far  distance,  and  finally  disappearid  from 
our  view.  George  and  I  looked  into  each  other's  eyes 
by  a  common  impulse — we  had  severed  many  a  strong 
tie — tho  companions  of  long  and  happy  years,  ay  !  even 
those  whom  we  had  found  friends  in  need,  we  had  left 
them  behind,  and  were  turning  our  faces  to  a  land  where 
all  was  strange  and  untried — where  we  knew  no  one — 
had  no  claim  on  any  one — yes !  well  might  we  gaze  at 
each  other  in  silence  and  each  in  their  own  heart  for  a 
moment  doubt  the  prudence  of  the  adventurous  step. 
It  was  only  a  moment,  however,  until  George  resumed 
— perhaps  I  might  say  assumed  his  now  natural  gayety 
and  drawing  my  arm  within  his  said  in  a  cheerful  tone : 
**  Come  now,  Elinor !  no  despondency,  if  you  love  me ! 


176 


ELINOR   PRKSrOW. 


— we're  hi  for  it,  in  any  case,  so  let  us  just  i.iake  the 
best  of  it.  For  myself,  thank  God  !  my  path  is  plain, 
it  is  only  for  you  I  would  fear  or  doubt,  but  I  do  neither, 
so  mind  and  follow  my  example!"  I  smiled  faintly, 
and  George  rattled  on.  "  Do  you  remember,  those 
lines  which  wo  saw  in  a  newspaper  some  time  ago, 
Elinor]" 


(( 


As  vanishcth  the  fleeting  dream — 
As  leaves  -hat  part  upon  the  tide — 

So,  'tis  our  lot  on  life's  swift  stream — 
(Perchance  forever)  to  divide  ; 

Or  meet  perhaps  in  years  to  come 
As  cold  as  if  we  ne'er  had  known — " 


Wall !  the  former  may  happen,  but  I'll  be  sworn  the 
latter  never  will — Shaugh  and  the  rest  could  never  be 
cold  to  us,  nor  we  to  them — that's  one  comfort." 

Unconsciously  I  imbibed  a  portion  of  my  brother's 
hopeful  spirit,  and  by  the  time  the  boat  got  out  into  the 
Bay,  we  were  both  prepared  to  enjoy  the  wondrous 
beauty  of  the  surrounding  scene.  Often  had  we  watched 
the  golden  sunset  fading  across  the  lovely  bay,  lingering 
among  the  white  sails  and  tall  masts  of  the  shipping, 
giving  richness  as  well  as  beauty  to  the  verdant  tints  of 
field  and  grove,  and  crowning  Ben-Ed ir's*  brow  as  wHh 
a  gorgeous  diadem  of  light,  then  shedding  a  parting 
beam  on  Dalkey,  and  Lambay,  and  Ireland's  Eye  far 
out  in  the  waters,  but  never  had  all  this  seemed  so 
lovely  as  now,  when  we  were  leaving  our  native  land,  it 
might  bo  for  over.     As  we  stood  side  V>y  side  I'ioking 

*  Ben-Edir,— the  Irish  name  for  the  Hill  of  Howth. 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


1T7 


out  0  1  the  swiftly  passing  landscapes,  the  tears  dimmed 
our  eyes  as  each  familiar  object  was  lefti  behind.  From 
the  far-off  Dublin  and  Wieklow  mountiiins,  already 
half  enveloped  in  the  purple  mist  of  evening,  to  the 
homely  old  Pigeon-House  close  by  us,  we  breathed  a 
heartfelt  blessing  on  all,  and  still  more  warmly  did  we 
bless  the  guileless  hearts,  the  true  hearts  who  make  the 
real  sunshine  of  the  Emerald  Isle, 

I  would  gladly  have  remained  on  deck  to  see  the 
moon  rising  for  the  last  time  over  those  *'  scenes  of  rich- 
est bloom,"  but  a  strong  breeze  happening  just  then  to 
spring  up,  the  boat  began  to  heave  and  my  head  began 
to  reel,  and  it  was  ju^^t  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  reach 
my  berth,  even  with  George's  assistance.  So  there  I 
was,  regularly  sea-sick,  and  for  the  remainder  of  the 
short  voyage  I  was  unable  to  leave  my  bed.  What  a 
night  of  horror  that  was,  to  be  sure,  cooped  up  in  my 
narrow  crib,  suffering  in  every  member,  every  heave 
and  lurch  of  the  small  steamer  bringing  an  increase  of 
torture.  Many  a  time  did  I  wish  from  my  heart  that  I 
was  quietly  snoozing  in  my  comfortable  chan\ber  in 
Adelaide  Place,  where,  with  my  present  experience,  I 
should  have  been  most  happy  to  remain.  Towards 
morning  I  became  somewhat  better,  and  wlion  1  was 
able  to  crawl  out  of  the  ladicvs'  cabin,  I  met  (ici»rgo  just 
at  the  door,  and  had  the  satisfiction  of  hearing  that  ho 
had  escaped  the  horrors  of  sea-sickness.  The  boat  liad 
just  stopped,  and  even  that  was  no  sn^ill  relief  to  my 
diz^'  head.  But,  better  still,  George  hurried  me  off  to 
a  h<  tel,  where  I  had  the  luxury  of  that  best  of  speeifiC8 


lilil 


178 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


for  such  maladies,  a  good  cup  of  tea,  ami  after  that,  s 
couple  of  hours  of  refreshing  sleep ;  then  I  arose,  if  not 
in  renovated  health  and  spirits,  at  least  well  enough  to 
accompjiny  George  on  a  sight-seeing  expedition.  Unfor 
tunately  there  was  not  much  to  see  except  a  wilderness 
of  black,  smoky  buildings,  and  a  forest  of  masts,  yards, 
and  flags,  growing  up  in  apparently  inextricable  density 
and  confusion  from  the  bosom  of  the  Mersey  river.  After 
we  had  made  the  circuit  of  Nelson's  monument,  admired 
the  Merchant's  Exchange,  and  the  Music  Hall,  walked  up 
and  down  a  few  of  the  principal  thoroughfares — in  fixct, 
the  place  is  throughout  one  vast  thoroughfare — we  began 
to  find  out  that  there  was  little  beauty  and  loss  variety  to 
be  seen  in  that  most  dingy  and  ill-favored  city.  Never 
was  I  so  tired  of  a  place,  for  the  noise,  the  endless  din 
of  commerce,  was  absolutely  deafening,  and,  unlike  other 
cities,  there  is  no  part  of  Liverpool  that  you  can  call 
quiet.  It  is  the  great  market-place  where  the  whole 
world  seems  to  transact  its  business.  How  any  one  can 
live — at  least,  enjoy  life — in  such  a  Babel,  I  cannot  un- 
derstand. To  me  there  is  something  oppressive  in  the 
crowded  thoroughfares  of  a  great  city,  something  that 
awes  and  depresses  me;  in  Liverpool  this  was  especially 
the  case,  and  never  did  I  feel  a  more  overpowering  sense 
of  loneliness  than  I  did  while  its  thousand,  thousand 
voices  rang  in  my  ears,  and  its  multitudes  hurried  past 
me  to  and  fro  in  perpetual  motion.  Still  we  had  only  a 
day  to  wait  there,  and  when  I  had  once  regained  the  pi-i- 
vacy  of  my  front-chamber  in  the  hotel,  I  felt  compar- 
atively quiet,  and  was  well-disposed  to  **  take  mine  ease** 


i    ^ 


ELINOR    PHKSTON. 


179 


in  a  hiVge  faitteuil  near  the  win«l<)\v,  which  happening  to 
overlook  the  street  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  studying 
the  various  costumes  and  peculiarities  of  people  from 
almost  every  clime.  George,  on  the  contrary,  preferred 
to  stroll  at  leisure  through  the  streets,  in  order  to  see 
everything  that  was  at  all  worth  seeing. 

In  the  evening  we  went  on  board  the  packet^a  noble 
specimen  she  was  too,  of  those  stately  sea-hostel ries 
which  have  ferried  millions  of  the  adventurous  sons  and 
daughters  of  the  British  Islands  across  the  Atlantic  in 
search  of  fortune.  ^lany  packets  belonging  to  rival 
lines  were  drawn  up  along  the  wharves,  like  cabs  and 
omnibusc'3  in  waiting  for  fares  at  boat  landings  and 
railroad  depots,  but  certainly  there  was  none  to  exceed 
our  own,  at  least  in  appearance.  Our  gou.l  opinion  of 
her  was  fully  borne  out  during  the  voyage,  when  she 
gallantly  withstood  more  than  one  stiff  gale,  and  we 
learned  from  some  of  the  oflicers  on  board  that  that  was 
her  seventy-fourth  trip  across  the  Atlantic,  in  all  which 
time  she  had  never  sustained  any  serious  injury.  She 
was  a  stately  vessel  truly,  and  for  my  part,  I  had  such 
confidence  in  her  strength  and  power  that  my  fears  of 
the  sea  were  aln.ost  overcome,  as  I  looked  with  a  feeling 
akin  to  pride  on  her  noble  proportions  while  dropj)ing 
down  the  Mersey  with  the  evening  tide ,  People  may 
talk  of  the  wonders  of  this  age  of  steam,  and  glorify 
themselves  on  the  increased  facilities  of  communication, 
but,  as  I  am  no  merchant,  and  have,  consequently,  no 
particular  inducement  to  span  Uic  ocean  with  preternat- 
ural swiftness,  I  am  frer  to  admit  that  I  would  rather 


•III 


180 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


spend  three  weeks  or  so  coming  across  beneath  the  wings 
of  the  good  (Ad  "  fiist-sailing  "  line-of-packet  ships,  than 
*  run  the  risk  of  being  scalded  to  death,  or  blown  to  atoms 
}>y  the  pretentious  steam-monsters  which  shoot  with 
their  passengers  from  Liverpool  to  New  York  at  the 
imminent  risk  of  life  and  limb.  All  honor,  then,  to  the 
good  old-fashioned,  copper-keeled  packets,  who  never 
troubled  their  own  or  other  people's  heads  with  steam 
or  any  such  inventions,  but  plodded  like  patient  mules, 
week  after  week,  over  and  athwart  the  mountain-billows 
of  NeptuiHi's  kingdom,  quailing  only  before  the  stonn, 
and,  in  general,  landing  their  passengers  with  whole 
bones,  just  where  they  bargained  for,  instead  of  de- 
•patching  them  to  the  regions  beyond  the  Styx,  which  is 
oft;en  the  case  with  their  more  popular  arid  more  fashion- 
able competitors  of  the  hot  water  department. 

Fortiuiately  for  me  I  was  little  troubled  with  sea/- 
sickness  on  the  passage  out.  It  would  seem  as  though 
the  disease  had  exhausted  its  virulence  in  that  first  grand 
attack,  for  even  the  longest  and  heaviest  swells  of  the 
Atlantic  wave  produced  no  corresponding  throes  or 
spasms  in  the  region  of  my  stomach.  A  little  dizziness, 
bordering  at  times  on  headache,  was  the  worst  symptom 
I  felt  on  shipboard,  so  that  I  had  nothing  to  hinder  me 
from  observing  surrounding  objects,  and  t«iking  notes  of 
what  was  g(Mng  on  among  my  fellow-passengers.  For 
the  first  few  days  I  seldom  ventured  on  deck,  at  least 
after  we  had  cleared  the  British  seas  and  lost  sight  of  the 
Irish  coast  which  had  been  again  visible  for  some  time, 
as  we  sped  on  towards  the  wide  ocean.     It  was  earl^ 


ILINOR    PR88T09. 


181 


\y 


morning  when  we  came  in  sight  of  our  own  dear  island, 
and  it  miide  my  heart  bound  with  a  thrill  of  sympathj 
to  see  the  rush  from  below  when  some  one  cried  out 
•'  The  Irish  Coast !  "  Instantly  from  stoerage  and  second- 
cabin  hurried  an  eager  crowd,  all  urging  each  other  to 
be  quick  "  for  fear  they'd  miss  the  sight."  But  there 
was  no  need,  for  there  in  full  view  lay  the  Mountains 
of  Wicklow  bright  in  the  morning  sun,  and  we  were 
aailing  so  near  the  shore  that  we  could  easily  dis- 
tinguish the  yellow  corn-fields,  and  green  pastures,  and 
stately  sea-side  villas.  Many  a  fervent  blessing  was 
wafted  then  over  the  waters,  and  as  we  above  on  the 
quarter-deck  leaned  over  the  gunwale  to  murmur  our 
own  fond  farewell,  the  depths  of  our  souls  were  stirred 
by  the  many-v<l!ced  wail  which  arose  from  the  deck  be- 
low. Never  did  I  feel  so  intense  a  sympathy  as  at  that 
moment — never  was  I  so  sensible  to  the  mighty  strength 
of  the  bond  whi(;h  binds  together  the  children  of  one 
country — that  country,  moreover,  an  "  island  of  sorrow." 
When  the  broken  line  of  the  Irish  coast  was,  at  length, 
waxing  dim,  and  "  the  Green  hills  of  holy  Ireland " 
were  fading  into  mist,  it  was  pitiful  to  see  the  heavy 
sorrow  of  the  homeless  multitude.  Gray-haired  men 
and  women  strained  their  failing  eyes  to  catcli  the  last 
sight;  mothers  and  fathers  hel<i  up  their  little  ones  to 
look  at  their  '  icherland  once  again,  and  fix  the  fleeting 
vision  on  their  minds,  ere  it  vanished  i'or  ever.  Strong 
men  stood  leaning  in  moody  silence  against  the  vessel's 
■ide,  regardless  of  the  trickling  tears  which,  at  another 
time  and   under  other  circumstances,  thev  would  have 

Mr 


182 


'BLIMOB   PRKSTOK. 


been  ashamed  to  shed.  Half  unconsciously  I  murmured 
some  versofi  of  an  old  song  which  I  had  loved  in  happier 
hours : 

"  The  last  breeie  from  Erin 

IIos  passed  o'er  mj  broW|  * 

The  gale  of  the  ocean 

Is  over  me  now ; 
I  leave  thee,  mj  country ! 
Farewell !  though  thou  art 
^  The  life-pulse  that  stirs  me, 

The  veins  of  my  heart — 

Erin,  mavourneen,  farewell  t 

I  gaze  "vvbere  the  bright  scene 

Falls  back  to  the  west, 
And  tinges  the  blue  clouds 

That  hang  o'er  thy  breast : 
The  bark  bears  me  from  thee 

To  sail  o'er  the  deep, 
While  on  thy  green  bosom 

I  gaze, — and  I  weep ; 

Erin,  mavoumeen,  farowell  t 


*'  Farewell  I  for  no  longer 
I  gaze  on  thy  shore ; 
The  mists  are  between  us— > 

I  view  thee  no  more ! 
Perhaps  to  my  country 

I  breathe  the  last  strain  ; 
Perhaps  I  may  never 
Heboid  thee  again; 

Krin,  mavourneen,  farewell ! 


By  the  time  I  kad  ended,  we  had  seen  "the  last 
glimpse  of  Erin/'  and  with  a  f?*:^lin^  of  utter  desolation, 
1  tcik  George's  arm,  and  said,  *  Let  us  gt  in — we  have 


BLINOR   PRKSTON. 


1S3 


nothing  to  look  at  now."  So  there  wc  wore — far  out  al 
sea — with  no  speck  of  land  in  sight,  nothing  but  the 
boundless  firmament  and  the  green,  billowy  oc(\in — the 
earth's  mighty  girdle  stretching  round  and  r(»und,  without 
bejr'dminjj  or  end,  like  the  vaster  ocean  of  eternity.  Tho 
evening  came  on  with  mist  and  shadow — cold,  dull,  and 
gray  ;  the  gull  and  the  curlew  still  hovered  around  in 
the  eddying  circles,  shrieking  as  it  were  in  concert,  and 
flapping  their  wings  by  way  of  accompjiniment  to  their 
own  discordant  music.  It  was  a  cheerless  evening,  as  it 
ought  to  be  when  so  many  hearts  were  weighed  down 
with  sorrow,  and  hope  itself  was  for  tho  moment  ex- 
tinguished. Tho  night  was  calmer  and  passed  off  better 
than  we  expected,  however ;  and  with  tho  morning's  light 
the  elastic  spirit  of  tho  passengers  seemed  to  spring  up 
again,  and  in  little  groups  they  began  to  appear  on  deck 
gazing  with  curious  eyes  on  tho  new  little  world  in  which 
they  found  themselves. 


184 


ILIKOR   PRK8T0N. 


CHAPTER    VII. 


HE  twenty-four  days  of  our  voyage 
possod  away  more  pleasantly  than  we 
could  have  expected.  Some  of  our 
fellow-passengers  in  the  cabin  wore  both  agreeable  and 
entertaining,  especially  one  old  gentleman  from  the 
north  of  England,  who  with  his  son  and  daughter  were 
going  to  New  York  on  a  mission  partly  commercial, 
partly  official.  No  people  can  be  more  courteous  or 
more  afliible  than  the  English,  if  you  happen  to  please 
them,  and  somehow  this  family  seemed  to  take  to  us 
from  the  very  beginning  of  our  acquaintance.  Even 
when  our  luggage  was  being  taken  on  board,  Mr.  Wort- 
loy  contrived  to  make  room  for  it  in  a  certain  convenient 
little  nook  wliich  he  had  obtained  for  his  own  by  special 
priviU'i^c,  the  captain  and  ho  having,  it  appeared,  been 
schoolboys  together.  The  captain's  wife  was  also  on 
board,  a  neat,  tidy,  thrifty  Englisliwonmn,  who  made 
herself  generally  useful  in  providing  for  the  comfort  of 

She  was  a  straightforward ,  mat- 


passe 


nffers. 


ter-offact  little  body,   very   good-tempered,  and  well 


ILINOB   PRS81  »N. 


185 


disposed  to  he  pleased  with  every  one.  Among  th« 
other  cabin-passengers,  mulo  and  female,  thiTc  wore  but 
few  who  had  any  marked  characteristics,  with  tho  excep- 
tion of  one  eldtrly  gentleman  who  was  wofully  afraid 
of  injuring  his  hiulth,  and  whoso  greatest  amusement 
seemed  to  consist  in  experimenting  on  the  strength  of 
his  own  constitution,  and  its  capacity  for  enduring  drug- 
ging. This  good  man  hud  quite  a  little  mi'dieine-ehest 
with  him,  and  to  do  him  justice,  if  ho  si  t  a  high  value 
on  its  contents  himself,  he  was  exceedingly  gi  iiorous  in 
dispensing  tht-m  to  all  who  choso  to  use  them.  It  was 
matter  of  surprise  to  all  of  us  how  well  this  poor  gentle- 
man seemed  to  thrive  on  his  pills  and  medicaments. 
There  was  not  a  man  on  board  in  better  condition ;  but 
it  would  have  been  no  small  affront  to  tell  him  so,  for 
he  was,  or  siemed  to  be,  fully  convinced  that  he  was 
wasting  away  day  by  day  under  tho  action  of  some 
strange,  unknown  disease,  which  baffled  the  skill  of  all 
the  doctors.  Good  Mrs.  White,  the  captain's  wife,  was, 
strange  to  say,  tho  only  one  on  board  who  systematically 
annoyed  poor  Mr.  Hampton,  and  this  she  did  in  her 
oblivious  kindness,  regularly  insisting  at  table  on  his 
being  helped  off"  some  good  substantial  j<jint,  giving  as 
her  reason  that  it  was  just  some  nourishing  food  he 
wanted.  "A  big  stout  man  like  you,  Mr.  Hampton, 
can't  live  without  eating,  and  eating  well !  If  I  were  you, 
my  dear  sir !  IM  throw  the  doctor's  stuffs  overboard, 
and  take  to  the  beef  and  mutton." 

This  well-meant  but  mistaken  kindness  usually  stirred 
up  tho  good  man's  bile,  and  more  than  once  ho  lefl  tho 


186 


KLINOK    PRISTOH. 


tabic  ill  high  <lii«lgcon,  ax\(\  wouM  hardly  spoak  to  Mrs. 
Whitt'  r«>r  soiiu!  hours  after,  till  a  bowl  of  arrow-root, 
or  water  grinl,  or  some  such  panacea  was  sent  to  his 
berth  as  a  peace-* )flrfring.  Many  a  tinuj  did  the  captrun 
and  others  lu'g  of  the  good  lady  not  to  volunteer  her 
advice  to  the  soi-diaant  invalid,  and  as  otlen  did  she 
promise  to  act  accordingly  ;  but  afliT  a  meal  or  two  at 
most  her  memory  would  lapse  again,  and  the  sight  of 
Mr.  Hampton's  large,  fleshy  countenance  at  the  further 
end  of  the  table  would  suggest  the  i<lea  of  the  greasy 
aliments  on  which  hons  vivants  usually  fatten.  She 
never  could  remember,  apparently  for  any  length  of  time, 
the  existing  connection  between  that  prototype  of  Dick- 
ens' fat  boy  and  the  infantile  slops  with  which  he  chose 
to  fdl  his  "  fair  round  belly." 

This  was  all  capital  fun  to  the  rest  of  us,  but  apart 
from  ♦,  hat  we  had  entertainment  on  board  of  a  widely 
diflerent  kind.  George  and  myself  often  sat  for  hours 
listening  to  the  conversation  of  the  steiTage  and  second- 
cabin  passengers  as  they  lounged  on  the  main-deck,  and 
aroujul  the  gangway  stairs.  Gradually  we  learned  to 
know  them  individually  and  by  their  names,  and  by 
close  attention  we  obtained  an  insight  into  many  of  their 
peculiarities,  togtiith*  r  with  snatches  of  their  "simple 
story."  Many  a  little  romance  of  real  life  might  be 
fabricated  from  the  affairs  of  those  three  hundred  emi- 
T*ants,  some  of  them  Welsh,  some  of  them  Scotch  and 
.linglish,  but  the  greater  number  Irish.  Among  these 
there  was  an  endless  variety  of  circumstance  and  con- 
dition.    There  were  families  of  two  generations— a  ven- 


KLINOR   PRBSTOjr. 


187 


erable  grandfather  or  grandmother,  apparently  tittering 
on  "  lifc*s  narrow  verge,"  yet  breaking  asunder  at  the 
voice  of  strong  afTcction  the  ties  of  country  and  of  home, 
to  follow  the  son  or  daughter  and  their  family  into  their 
voluntary  exile.  Some  of  these  families  were  large— 
quite  largo  enough  to  form  a  busy  little  comnmnity 
within  tlu'inselves.  These,  we  obser\'ed,  were  lively 
and  cheerful,  buoyed  up  with  hope  and  expectation, 
caring  little,  apparently,  for  the  unknown  dangers  and 
trials  which  might  await  them,  so  long  as  they  were  all 
together.  Ot^k  rs  there  were — lone  men  and  women— 
who  had  been  sent  for  by  their  children  in  America,  and 
were  going,  full  of  hope,  to  share  the  good  fortune  of 
those  who  had  preceded  them  to  the  El  Dorado.  Well 
for  them  that  the  veil  of  the  future  was  impenetrable  to 
their  eyes,  else  had  they  not  been  ^ianguinely  cheer- 
ful in  quitting  their  old  home.  These  were  in  general 
an  interesting  class  to  us ;  but  we  specially  singled  out 
one  Widow  Mahony,  a  tall,  thin  old  woman,  whose 
scrupulous  neatness,  and  evident  superiority  to  those 
around  hcT,  could  not  fail  to  command  respect.  She 
had  two  daughters  in  Philadelphia — "  all  she  had  in  the 
world,"  as  she  said  herself;  **  and  as  God  put  it  in  their 
hearts  to  send  for  her,  she  was  venturin'  out  to  them, 
though  it  was  a  hard  thing  to  crDss  the  sea  at  her  time 
of  life,  when  in  the  coorse  of  nature  she  hadn^t  long  to 
live :  but  sure  if  God  only  spared  her  to  get  to  the 
girls,  she'd  be  the  happiest  poor  woman  alive,  an*  if  it 
was  his  will  to  take  her  to  himself  the  next  day  she'd  be 
well  content."     Poor  Widow  Mahony !  her  resignatioD 


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188 


ELINOR   PRESTOir. 


was  severely  tasked.  The  very  day  befcre  we  reached 
the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  we  saw  her  frail  body  com- 
mitted to  the  deep.  She  died  thanking  God  that  she 
had  been  to  her  duty  the  day  before  she  left  home. 
Next  to  her  grievous  disappointment  in  not  living 
to  see  her  daughters,  she  appeared  most  depressed 
by  the  thought  that  she  was  not  to  have  Christian  bur- 
ial. It  was  unnatural,  she  said,  for  a  Christian  to  be 
thrown  out  into  the  sea  like  a  dead  dog,  instead  of  being 
decently  covered  up  in  the  ground  among  their  own 
flesh  and  blood ;  but,  sure,  after  all,  at  the  last  day,  the 
sea  would  have  to  give  up  its  dead  as  well  sm  the  land, 
and  what  difference  would  there  be  then  ?  But  och !  och ! 
if  she  had  only  lived  to  see  Jane  and  Ellen — and  them 
losing  the  money  they  sent  to  bring  her  out — *'  God 
comfort  them,"  were  almost  her  last  words,  "  for  they'll 
have  the  sorrowful  hearts  when  they  hear  that  the  old 
mother  they  hadn't  seen  for  six  years  died  a-shipboard, 
and  was  thrown  out  into  the  sea.  O !  Blessed  Virgin ! 
you  were  sorrowful,  too, — you'll  comfort  them,  then, 
on  account  of  your  own  heavy  sorrow  an'  mine ! " 

Poor  Mrs.  Mahony's  hard  fate  was  much  lamented, 
for  she  had  made  for  herself  many  friends  on  shipboard ; 
and  there  were  few  dry  eyes  amongst  the  Irish  passen- 
gers when  her  body  was  consigned  to  its  watery  grave. 
Hers  was  the  only  death  that  occurred  during  the  voy- 
age, and  it  gave  us  an  opportunity  of  witnessing  that 
very  solemn  and  affecting  sight,  a  burial  at  sea.       ^ 

Another  most  interesting  class  of  the  emigrants  were 
the  young  girls,  many  of  whom  were  there  wholly  un 


EUNOR   PRESTON. 


189 


protected,  some  of  them  very  pretty,  and  many  the  pio- 
ture  of  guileless  innocence.  To  say  the  truth,  however, 
the  great  majority  of  them  were  both  stout  and  sturdy, 
well  fitted  for  battling  with  the  world,  judging,  at  least, 
by  the  courage  and  resolution  which  they  displayed  in 
fighting  for  their  turn  at  the  common  fire  on  deck.  It 
was  really  amusing  to  get  within  sight  and  hearing  of 
what  went  on  there  during  the  process  of  cooking  the 
meals.  There  was  a  general  scramble  for  the  fire  on 
these  occasions,  the  rule,  of  course,  being  "  first  come, 
first  served ;"  and  as  the  sea  air  usually  sharpens  the 
appetite,  hunger  gave  a  corresponding  keenness  to  the 
temper  of  the  eager  expectants.  Sometimes  the  spar- 
ring was  confined  to  a  few,  but  at  other  times  it  assumed 
a  more  general  character,  and  was  carried  out  on  na- 
tk)nal  grounds.  Happily  the  parties  never  came  to 
blows,  or  I  know  not  what  might  have  been  the  con- 
sequence, the  belligerents  being  armed  with  such  mis- 
siles as  saucepans,  frying-pans,  and  gridirons,  not  to 
speak  of  other  more  deadly  weapons.  It  was  curious 
to  see  how  the  bolder  and  more  confident — the  bluster- 
ers  and  the  swaggerers  made  their  way  there  just  as  they 
do  in  the  world,  while  the  modest  and  the  timid  were 
thrust  aside  and  compelled  to  wait  till  the  clamorous 
disputants  had  each  served  their  turn. 

Among  the  prettiest  of  the  young  girls  whom  we  no- 
ticed on  board  was  one  whose  name  we  found  to  be 
Margaret  Gilmartin.  She  was  about  nineteen  or  twenty 
—not  more  at  the  utmost — and  was  evidently  unskilled 
in  the  ways  of  the  world,  for,  with  all  her  beauty,—  -and 


190 


ELINOR   PRESTOir. 


she  was  really  beautiful — there  was  about  her  an  air 
of  almost  childish  bashfulness — a  shy,  gazelle-like  ex- 
pression  of  countenance  that  excited  your  pity  and  in- 
terested you  at  once  in  the  gentle,  modest  creature. 
She  had  not  a  soul  on  board  belonging  to  her,  and  it 
was,  from  the  first,  matter  of  surprise  to  me  how  she 
had  been  suffered  to  tempt  the  dangereous  ocean  all 
alone — so  young,  so  innocent,  so  timid  as  she  was. 
Surely,  I  used  to  think,  she  must  have  some  friends  at 
home.  I  soon  found  myself  mistaken.  The  only  one 
on  board  who  knew  anything  of  her  was  a  respectable 
old  man  named  Rafferty,  who  was  from  her  own  place, 
and  in  whose  care  she  had  been  placed  by  the  family 
in  whose  service  she  had  been  living.  Her  story  was 
very  simple,  and  withal  very  common  in  the  history  of 
emigration.  She  was  an  only  child.  He  father  had 
gone  out  to  America  several  years  before,  leaving  his 
wife  and  daughter  in  their  little  cotttage  near  the  foot  of 
one  of  the  Gal  tee  mountains,  expecting  to  send  for  them 
within  the  year,  if  God  prospered  his  endeavors,  Alas ! 
he  was  hardly  a  month  in  his  employment — ^he  was  a 
mason  by  trade — when  he  fell  from  a  scaffold  some 
forty  feet  to  the  ground,  and  was  all  but  killed.  He 
was  taken  up  insensible,  with  a  leg  and  arm  broken,  and 
for  three  long  months  he  lay  in  an  hospital,  hovering 
for  weeks  of  that  time  between  death  and  life.  That 
was  only  the  first  of  a  series  of  misfortunes ;  several 
times  he  had  had  sufficient,  or  nearly  sufficient,  to  bring 
out  the  wife  and  daughter  for  whom  his  heart  yearned, 
and  as  oflen  had  some  untoward  accident  occurred  to 


XLINOR  PRESTON. 


191 


scatter  his  little  hoard,  and  postpone  the  meeting  so 
fondly  desired  by  all  three.  He  had  occasionally  sent 
home  money,  however,  and  this  kept  hope  alive.  But 
the  dismal  year  of  the  famine  came  on,  and  the  neigh- 
boring farmers  who  had  given  employment  to  Norah 
Gilmartin  and  her  little  daughter  were,  with  their  fam- 
ilies,  reduced  to  beggary  and  starvation.  No  more 
spinning,  no  more  weeding,  no  more  "dropping"  or 
"  gathering  "  of  potatoes — ^nothing  to  be  got  even  for 
charity,  so  at  lasl  mother  and  child  were  forced  to  go 
into  the  poorhouse  in  order  to  escape  starvation.  A 
dismal  resource  that  was,  for  the  food  was  hardly  suf- 
ficient, either  in  quantity  or  quality,  to  keep  body  and 
soul  together.  Mother  and  child,  too,  were  separated, 
kept  in  different  rooms,  and  when  they  did  meet  for  a 
moment,  it  was  in  the  presence  of  strangers,  when  they 
were  not  allowed  to  converse.  Under  this  heavy  pres- 
sure of  affliction,  the  mother's  heart  soon  gave  way : 
her  body — never  of  the  strongest,  and  much  worn  lat- 
.terly  ly  sorrow,  and  privation,  and  hard  work, — soon 
became  the  prey  of  disease,  and  she  "  died  gray-haired, 
in  youth  " — the  beautiful  mother  of  beautiful  Margaret 
Gilmartin.  After  a  while  the  desolate  orphan  waf  sent 
out  to  service,  and  fortunately  for  her  she  fell  into  good 
hands.  For  the  last  three  or  four  years  she  had  been 
tolerably  comfortable,  being  treated  by  the  family  with 
great  kindness,  and  her  work  made  as  light  as  possible, 
but  still  she  had  pined  ^or  a  sight  of  her  only  parent, 
to  be  near  whom  was  her  heart's  fondest  wish.  When, 
at  length,  her  father  sent  for  her,  she  got  ready  with  all 


102 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


possible  alacrity,  and  was  now  on  her  way  to  Boston, 
where  he  resided,  hoping  to  find  in  his  love  and  pro" 
tection,  all  and  more  than  all  she  had  lost. 

Half  the  young  men  on  board  were  evidently  at- 
tracted by  Margaret's  pretty  face  and  her  air  of  maid- 
enly reserve.  She  appeared,  in  fact,  to  create  quite  a 
sensation,  although  she  was,  or  seemed  to  be,  wholly 
unconscious.  Latterly,  however,  I  had  noticed  her 
somewhat  paler  and  more  dejected  than  usual.  On  the 
day  of  poor  widow  Mahony's  death,  I  was  sitting  alone 
towards  evening  on  the  quarter-deck,  when  old  RafTerty, 
partly  ascending  the  gangway  steps,  made  a  sign  that 
he  wished  to  speak  to  me.  Touching  his  hat  with  re- 
spect, the  old  man  said,  in  a  low  voice,  as  I  approached 
him :  "  I  made  bold,  miss,  to  speak  to  you  about  a  thing 
that's  troublin'  me,  because  I  know  you  take  an  interest 
in  us  all." 

"Certainly  I  do,  my  good  man! — what  is  it  that 
troubles  you  now?  " 

"  Why,  it's  all  about  that  poor  gersha,  miss,  that  the 
master  and  mistress  at  home  gave  me  in  charge.  I'm 
afeard  that  purty  face  of  hers  isn't  for  her  good." 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  miss,  she's  a  soft,  innocent  sort  of  a 
colleen^  with  no  sharpness  at  all  in  her,  an'  there's  some 
of  these  chaps  hereabouts  that's  puttin  their  comeiker 
on  her." 

**  And  what  if  they  do  ? "  I  asked,  with  a  smile ; 
"  didn't  somebody  put  a  cotaether  (as  you  say)  on  her 
mother  before  her.    It  might  be  well  for  her,  after  all,  if 


le; 
ler 
if 


ELINOR   PRE8T0K. 


193 


she  and  some  decent  young  man  made  it  up  together  to 
'be  married  as  soon  as  they'd  come  to  shore.     Sho'U  be 
sure  of  protection  then,  you  know." 

"  Oh !  but  that  isn't  what  I  mean  at  all,  miss, — I  wish 
to  goodness  it  was  only  that." 

"  Why,  what  in  the  world  is  it,  then  1 "  I  asked  in 
some  surprise. 

"  It's  one  of  the  mates,  miss,"  and  the  old  man  drop- 
ped his  voice  to  the  lowest  pitch,  and  looked  cautiously 
round  at  the  same  time ;  "  it's  one  of  the  mates — I  think 
the  first  mate — that's  makin  freer  than  I'd  like  with 
little  Margaret.  I  didn't  mind  much  at  first,  so  long  as 
she  kept  him  at  a  civil  distance,  but  I'm  afeard,  miss, 
she's  beginnin'  to  give  too  much  heed  to  what  the  fel- 
low says  to  her,  an'  he's  a  fine  likely  fellow,  too.  Now, 
I'm  sure  an'  sartain  he'd  never  think  of  marrying  a  poor 
bit  of  a  girleen  like  her,  but  he'll  make  her  b'live  any- 
thing he  likes,  and  the  longer  she's  in  his  way  it's  all  the 
worse.  So  I  just  thought  I'd  ask  your  advice,  miss,  for 
I  know  you  have  the  knowledge  an'  the  understandin' 
that  me  and  the  likes  o'  me  hasn't,  God  help  us !  " 

I  candidly  told  the  old  man  that  his  fears  were  far 
from  being  unfounded,  and  I  promised — with  a  heavy 
heart,  I  confess — to  do  what  I  could.  I  knew  well 
enough  there  was  no  use  talking  to  the  girl  herself.  In 
such  a  case  as  that,  the  only  thing  was  to  keep  her  out 
of  harm's  way  if  possible.  I  went  straight  to  Mrs. 
White,  the  captain's  wife,  and  told  her  the  story  just  as 
I  heard  it.  Cool  and  passive  as  she  usually  was,  she 
got  quite  excited  before  I  had  come  to  the  end. 
17 


194 


XLINOR    PRESTON. 


"  Oh  !  the  villain ! "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  he  has  a  wife 
and  three  children  over  on  the  Cheshire  shore  of  the  Mer^ 
sey.  Wait  till  I  get  my  eyes  on  him — if  I  don't  expose 
him,  never  trust  me  for  an  honest  woman !  " 

I  hastily  explained  to  the  good  lady  that  any  open  in- 
terference on  her  part  would  in  all  probability  make 
matters  worse,  and  I  told  her  if  she  wished  really  to 
serve  the  girl,  she  would  take  her  as  a  servant  at  once, 
and  keep  her  so  constantly  engaged  under  her  own  eye 
that  the  enemy  would  have  no  further  chance. 

"  Well !  I  really  have  no  need  of  her " 

"  No  matter,  my  dear  madam ;  a  week  or  so  will 
bring  us  to  land,  and  when  she  is  once  sent  off  to  her 
father  we  have  no  further  care  of  her.  Only  let  us  keep 
her  out  of  the  fangs  of  tiiis  serpent  while  on  shipboard, 
for  she  is  young,  artless,  and  inexperienced ;  and  I  have 
heard  many  a  sad  tale  of  unprotected  creatures,  such  as 
she,  being  seduced  and  corrupted  on  their  passage  to 
America.  For  God's  sake  take  her  into  the  cabin,  ap- 
parently to  wait  on  you,  and  1  will  pay  you  whatever 
you  think  it  rigllt  to  pay  Aw." 

My  entreaties  prevailed.  That  very  evening  Mar- 
garet Gilmartin  was  taken  into  the  cabin  as  Mrs.  White's 
servant,  to  the  great  dissatisfaction  of  all  the  other 
young  girls  on  board  who  were  disposed  to  regard  her 
promotion  with  envy.  The  girl  herself,  though  evidently 
proud  of  the  distinction,  was  still  very  fond  of  straying 
to  the  forepart  of  the  vessel,  visiting  the  main-deck  (os- 
tensibly on  her  way  to  the  steerage)  much  oflener  than 
we  could  wish,  and  I  had   another  cautious,  st^lthjr 


ELINOR   PRBSTOH. 


195 


visit  from  old  Raflferty  on  the  subject.  After  this  I 
SAW  that  we  must  go  a  step  fUrther,  and  I  accordingly 
got  Mrs.  White  to  bring  in  this  Porter's  ramo  and  men- 
tion his  wife  and  family,  one  day  at  the  dinner- table, 
just  when  I  knew  Margaret  was  within  hearing.  The 
captain,  though  knowing  nothing  of  what  was  going  on, 
took  up  the  subject  at  once  and  spoke  in  very  high  terms 
of  Porter's  wife,  saying  that  he  had  known  her  since 
she  was  no  higher  than  the  table,  for  her  father  was  a 
brother-tar  of  his  own — they  were  mates  together  for 
years  not  few  on  board  the  old  North  Briton.  Just 
then  a  sound  as  of  some  one  sobbing  made  Mrs.  White 
and  myself  exchange  glances.  The  sound  was  from  my 
room,  so  I  made  a  sign  to  her  not  to  move,  and  with- 
drew from  the  table  as  quietly  as  I  could.  Sure  enough 
when  I  entered  my  little  room  and  closed  the  door  after 
me,  there  I  found  poor  Margaret  bathed  in  tears,  and 
as  pale  as  a  ghost.  I  sat  down  by  her  and  tenderly  in- 
quired what  was  the  matter.  For  some  time  I  asked 
in  vain — the  poor  girl  doing  all  she  could  to  suppress 
her  tears  and  sobs  for  fear  of  being  heard  in  the  .cabin. 
But  the  effort  was  too  much  for  her,  and  when  I  again 
repeated  my  question,  she  murmured  in  a  broken  whis- 
per that  told  the  shame  and  anguivli  of  her  heart :  "  Oh  ! 
Miss  Preston,  dear,  isn't  that  the  villain  of  the  world  ?  " 

"Who,  Margaret?" 

"  Oh !  Mr.  Porter — who  else !  Sure  didn't  he  tell 
me  all  along  he'd  marry  me  when  we'd  get  to  shore  ; 
an'  it  was*  only  last  night  he  made  me  promise  that  as 
soon  as  we  got  to  New  York  I'd  go  with  him  to  the 


196 


EUNOR   TRESTON. 


priest's  house !  Oh !  God  help  me  this  day !  what  'id 
become  of  me  at  all  if  I  had  gone  with  him !  Miss 
Preston  dear,  an'  jewel,  hadn't  I  the  blessin'  of  God,  an' 
some  poor  body's  blcssin'  into  the  bargain  ?  But  do  you 
think,  miss,  that  there's  no  mistake  in  it — is  he — is  he — 
married  ?  " 

"Why  certainly,  Margaret!  I  heard  Mrs.  White 
speak  several  times  of  him  as  a  married  man ^" 

**  Well !  the  Lord  be  praised  anyhow  that  I  found  it 
out  in  time !  "  She  sighed  as  though  her  heart  would 
break.  "But  och!  och!  who'd  think  he  could  have 
such  badness  in  him  ? — he  has  sich  a  smooth  tongue  an' 
sich  a  deceitful  way  with  him !  " 

"  But  now  that  you  have  found  him  out,  my  poor  girl, 
I  hope  you  will  carefully  avoid  his  company  for  the  few 
days  that  remain  of  our  voyage  1 " 

"  Oh !  never  fear,  miss ! — ^never  you  fear  that !  "  she 
whispered  with  an  energy  that  startled  me,  it  was  so 
unexpected ;  "  if  he  ever  dared  to  say  a  soft  word  to  me 
again,  I'd  expose  him  before  all  the  passengers — ^no!  no! 
I'm  so  much  ashamed  of  myself  now  for  listenin'  to  him 
at  all,  that  I  hate  myself  a'most  as  much  as  I  do  him  ! 
Avoid  him,  indeed  ! — you'll  see  if  I  don't — he  took  me 
for  a  fool,  but  he'll  find  himself  the  greatest  fool  of  the 
two.  It's  the  best  of  his  play  for  him  to  keep  out  of 
my  way  for  the  time  to  come." 

She  then  requested  me  to  say  nothing  to  any  one  of 
what  had  happened,  and  I  cheerfully  promised  what  she 
desired,  as  a  few  w  Drds  to  assure  Mrs.  White  of  the  suo 


BLINOR   PRESTCK. 


197 


cess  of  our  innocent  stratagem  was,  I  knew,  no  betrayal 
of  trust. 

Next  day  I  was  uncharitable  enough  to  be  well  pleased 
when  I  overheard  my  good  old  friend,  Mr.  Wortley, 
asking  the  captain  what  in  the  world  had  happened  to 
that  good-looking  first-mate  of  his. 

•*  Faith !  I  don't  know,"  and  the  captain  smiled  with 
the  easy  good  nature  of  a  jovial  Englishman,  "  I  see  he 
has  his  arm  in  a  sling  to-day.  He  shyed  off  so  when  I 
asked  him  how  he  got  it,  that  I  rather  think  he  must 
have  been  larking  among  the  girls  below ! " 

"  The  deuce  he  was — serve  him  right,  if  so ! "  was  Mr. 
Wortley's  half-jocular  answer.  "That  will  teach  him 
to  *  let  the  girls  alone,'  following  the  advice  of  an  old 
song  I  once  heard,  I  believe  in  Ireland ! " 

When  I  was  next  alone  with  Margaret  I  asked  her  if 
she  knew  anything  about  the  wounded  arm,  whereupon 
she  significantly  upraised  the  broom  she  was  then  using, 
and  pointed  to  its  handle  with  a  blushing  cheek  and  a 
knowing  smile,  accompanied  with  a  shake  of  her  pretty- 
head,  as  much  as  to  say :  "  /  gave  it  to  him — I  did — 
much  good  may  it  do  him ! "  Then  and  there  I  shook 
hands  with  the  spirited  little  Tipperary  lass,  and  from 
that  moment  I  took  a  heartfelt  interest  in  her  welfare. 

From  this  incident  I  clearly  saw  the  fearful  dangers 
to  which  unprotected  emigrant  girls  are  exposed  in  their 
transit  from  Europe  to  America.  My  heart  swelled 
with  indignation  as  I  thought  of  the  manifold  snares  laid 
for  their  innocence,  both  on  board  the  emigrant  ship  and 
on  the  foreign  shore  to  which  they  are  hastening  in 


108 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


search  of  a  homo,  and  I  could  not  help  saying  to  Mrs. 
White, — whoso  kind  heart  was  much  aflbcted  by  this 
occurrence :  "  What  would  I  not  give  to  bo  able  to  warn 
all  young  girls  about  to  emigrate  of  the  numerous  dan- 
gers to  which  their  virtue  is  exposed  before  they  reach 
their  destination,  and  even  after  they  do  reach  it — dan- 
gers much  more  imminent  than  those  of  the  ocean  in  its 
wrath.  If  they  only  knew  how  many  defenceless  crea- 
tures of  their  sex  and  country  fall  a  prey  every  season 
to  these  human  monsters,  they  would  cling  to  the 
ruined  homesteads  where  their  parents,  perhaps,  died  of 
famine, — ay!  cling  to  them  till  death,  and  be  buried 
with  honor  and  decency  by  kindly  hands  in  the  old 
churchyard  whore  their  fathers  sleep,  rather  than  cross  the 
ocean  to  become  foul  and  loathsome  things,  the  prey  of 
the  vilest  passions,  the  disgrace  of  their  country  and  their 
race ! " 

The  good-natured,  placid  Englishwoman  could  by  no 
means  understand  the  warmth  with  which  I  spoke,  but 
she  said  it  was  really  too  bad,  and  wondered  that  girls 
would  expose  themselves  to  such  danger — "  they  ought 
certainly  to  stay  at  home,"  said  she,  **  if  they  have  no 
near  relatives  to  come  out  with."  In  which  opinion  I 
quite  concurred.  On  the  whole  I  found  Mrs.  White  so 
kind  and  so  motherly  in  her  way  that  I  really  felt  sorry 
when  the  time  of  our  parting  came,  the  more  so  as  there 
was  little  probability  of  our  ever  meeting  again.  The 
Wortleys,  too,  and  even  our  good-natured  hypochondriac, 
Mr.  Hampton,  had  each  and  all  contributed  to  beguile 
the  te(fium  of  the  voyage.     Our  vessel  anchored  ovei 


^ 


ILINOR   PRR8T0K. 


190 


le 


night  in  New  York  Bay,  right  in  front  of  Staton  Island, 
and  while  tho  captain  and  his  wife  entertained  us  in  tho 
cabin  with  a  farewell  supper,  whereat  appropriate  songs 
"Were  sung  and  appropriate  toasts  given  with  right  good 
will,  our  ears  apprised  us  that  tho  passengers  below 
were  making  merry  in  their  own  fashion.  There  ap- 
peared to  bo  more  than  one  violin  among  them, — as 
indeed  we  had  found  out  at  an  early  period  of  the  voy- 
age— and  if  they  were  neither  of  them  Cremonas,  nor 
any  of  the  players  likely  to  make  their  fortune  by  fid- 
dling in  the  New  World,  they  had  the  effect  of  making 
the  people  forget  for  a  while  their  cares  and  sorrows  and 
gloomy  forebodings.  Dancing  was  kept  up  down  there 
all  the  evening  with  little  intermission  and  with  such 
spirit  that  the  boards  of  the  good  ship  creaked  respon- 
sively.  There  is  no  knowing  when  the  farewell  soiree 
might  have  ended  had  not  the  signal  been  given  for  put- 
ting out  the  lights — I  rather  think  somewhat  before  the 
usual  time,  owing  to  Porter's  stirred-up  gall ;  whereupon 
the  hundreds  of  weary  exiles  who  had  been  for  a  brief 
space  so  happily  oblivious  of  their  lot,  consigned  them- 
selves to  their  various  berths — few  of  them  to  sleep,  as 
I  could  tell  by  the  experience  of  that  night — but  to  con 
over  in  their  restless  minds  all  their  preconceived  ideas 
of  the  tei'ra  incognita  on  which  they  were  to  land  by 
the  morrow's  light.  That  night  was,  as  it  were,  the 
threshold  between  two  stages  of  life.  It  was  neither  of 
the  past  nor  of  the  present,  but  a  solitary  measure  of 
time,  separating  them  one  from  the  other. 

Early  next  morn'ng  commenced  the  great  bustle  at 


200 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


tending  the  breaking  up,  as  it  were,  of  a  huge  house- 
hold. There  was  little  time  for  either  thought  or  speech, 
or  it  might  have  been  a  general  leave-taking.  When 
the  doctor,  from  on  shore,  had  made  his  professional  in- 
spection, aud  pronounced  us  all  in  a  healthy  condition— 
(I  wonder  would  his  report  be  couched  in  different  terms 
h'\d  he  been  able  to  examine  hearts !)  we  were  at  once 
declared  "  free  to  go,"  and  then,  as  if  by  magic,  the  pas- 
sengers were  all  in  motion,  all  tired  of  the  sea  and  eager, 
apparently,  to  get  on  shore,  all  scanning  with  curious 
eyes  the  coast  which  they  were  rapidly  approaching, 
with  the  great,  shapeless,  promiscuous  mass  of  ships  and 
houses  rising  up  on  the  near  horizon  right  before  us. 
Very  indifferent  substitutes  for  wharves  are  those  whjeii 
serve  that  purpose  in  New  York — very  discreditable, 
too,  to  so  great  an  emporium  of  trade — ^but  such  as  they 
are  we  were  very  glad  to  get  alongside  them  at  that 
particular  time.  Just  as  the  vessel  made  her  last  lurch 
and  was  elbowing  her  way  into  her  appointed  place, 
George  had  lefl  me  alone  for  a  few  minutes  while  he 
went  to  look  after  our  baggage,  and  I  was  beginning  to 
feel  rather  awkward  standing  alone  at  the  wheel-end  of 
the  quarter-deck,  when  old  Mr.  Wortley  very  oppor- 
tunely approached  and  offered  me  his  arm.  ^'  We  shall 
be  going  ashore  presently,  William!"  he  said  to  his  son 
who  came  up  at  the  moment,  "  so  you  can  go  down  for 
Rebecca  now  that  you  have  got  the  baggage  together  on 
deck."*  Poor  William  repressed  a  rising  sigh,  and  with 
a  glance  which  I  well  understood,  he  left  us  to  do  his 
father^s  bidding. 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


201 


"  Miss  Preston !  "  said  the  old  gentleman  after  a  short 
pause,  "  it  will  be  long  before  my  boy  " — he  always 
called  him  "boy"  though  he  was  six  or  eight-and-twenty 
at  least — "  it  will  be  long  before  my  boy  forgets  this 
voyage — it  will  indeed — and  as  for  myself,  my  dear 
young  lady,  I  never  thought  I  should  live  to  regret  the 
loss  of  a  Popish  daughter-in-law — ^pardon  me,  my  dear ! 
I  only  say  so  in  illustration,  as  it  were — I  used  to  think 
it  would  break  my  heart  to  see  a  son  or  daughter  of 
mine  wedded  to  one  of  that  persuasion,  but  I  do  assure 
you.  Miss  Preston !  I  have  lived  to  see  my  error — ^I 
should  be  very,  very  glad  to  give  William  a  Popish  rib 
now !  I  know  you  have  positively  refused  him — at  least 
the  poor  boy  tells  me  so — ^but  take  a  little  time,  my 
dear ! — only  think  of  it, — think  of  William's  worth — 
for  indeed,  indeed,  there  are  few  young  men  like  him — 
think  of  the  independent  position  you  at  once  secure,  and 
think,  too,  of  how  anxious  his  old  father  is  to  have  you 
for  a  daughter — think  of  all  this.  Miss  Elinor !  and  you 
will  not — you  cannot  hold  out ! " 

"  I  must,  my  dear  sir — I  cannot  do  otherwise,"  I  spoke 
with  some  difficulty,  but  I  tried  hard  to  appear  quite 
composed — "  I  have  told  yow,  sir,  and  what  is  more,  I 
have  told  your  son,  that  if  he  were  of  my  own  religion, 
I  should  bo  only  too  happy  to  become  his  wife  and  your 
daughter,  and  to  find  a  sister  in  your  sweet  Rebecca,  but 
William  is  a  staunch  Protestant,  and  I  am,  I  thank  God 
for  it !  as  staunch  a  Papist — as  you  say  yourself — so 
you  see  there  is  a  yaw^ning  gulf  between  us,  and  such  bo- 
log  the  case,  we  can  2ome  no  nearer  than  we  are.     B& 


202 


BLINOR   PRESTON. 


I 


lieve  me,  my  dear  good  sir !  I  regret  our  separation, 
perhaps  fully  as  much  as  you  do,  but  the  fault  is  not 
mine — in  all  probability  I  shall  never  marry,  but  if  I 
do,  the  man  of  my  choice  must  be  a  Catholic." 

"  So  this  is  your  final  answer  ?  " 

"My  final  answer ! — ^may  God  bless  you  and  yours— 
for  your  sakes,  I  will  ever  think  kindly  of  your  nation, 
little  as  I  have  hitherto  loved  the  English  name.  Say 
nothing  more  on  this  subject  before  my  brother,  I  beg 
of  you,  for  he  is  disposed  to  censure  what  he  calls  my 
bigotry — ^never,  though,  was  a  term  more  grossly  mis- 
applied— I  act  solely  from  a  sense  of  duty,  convinced 
chat  I  am  doing  the  will  of  God ! " 

The  old  man  had  only  time  to  squeeze  my  hand  when 
Gdorge  made  his  appearance  and  was  quickly  followed 
by  William  and  Rebecca.  Ever  since  I  had  positively 
declined  his  generous  proposal,  young  Wortley  had  kept 
studiously  out  of  my  way,  and  I  respected  him  all  the 
more  for  this  manly  exertion  of  self-control.  Had  he 
been  a  Catholic,  I  should  have  chosen  him  from  a  thou- 
sand, for  I  saw  him  in  possession  of  almost  every  quality 
I  could  have  desired  in  a  husband — ^as  it  was,  I  could 
not  help  regretting  the  obstacle  which  I  felt  to  be  insu- 
perable,  and  I  was  well  pleased  that  he  prudently  shun^ 
ned  my  company.  Lonely  as  I  was  it  was  very  tempt* 
ing  to  be  ofifered  such  advantages  on  the  eve  of  landing 
in  a  strange  country,  but  I  knew  it  was  a  temptation, 
and  I  prayed  for  strength  to  resist  it.  Strength  I  ao* 
cordingly  received,  and  the  heart  that  would  otherwise 
have  been  torn  with  anguish  at  the  final  parting  was  so 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


203 


isa 


wonderfully  soothed  and  quieted  by  some  invisible 
power  thtat  I  appeared  perfectly  calm  and  composed.  I 
have  no  doubt  but  the  dear  trio  whose  lot  I  would  will- 
ingly have  shared  considered  me  at  last  as  cold  and 
heartless.  Well !  be  it  so — if  that  wrong  estimate  of 
me  contributed  to  lessen  their  disappointment — to  heal 
his  heart — why  should  I  regret  it  ?  Peace  be  with  them 
wherever  they  go,  and  may  no  thought  of  the  lone  wan- 
derer whom  they  would  have  sheltered  so  fondly  ever 
obtrude  itself  on  their  recollection.  And  yet  it  will — ^I 
know  it  will !  theirs  were  not  the  hearts  likely  to  forget 
those  whom  they  once  loved. 

When  this  parting  was  over  all  the  rest  was  easy. 
Hampton  was  sorry  to  part  with  George  because  the 
droll  fellow  had  made  a  great  parade  of  compassion- 
ating his  infirmities,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  condoling 
with  him  on  the  hard  necessity  which  confined  him  to  so 
poor  a  regimen. 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Preston !  good-bye  ! "  said  he,  "  I 
regret  that  we  must  part  company  soon.  Should  we 
ever  meet  again — and  I  have  my  doubts  about  that  in 
my  present  state  of  health — ^I  hope  to  be  better  able 
to  enjoy  life.  Were  I  of  a  more  robust  constitution,  I 
should  certainly  travel  northward  with  you  and  Miss 
Elinor,  for  I  have  a  sort  of  notion  that  the  bracing  nor- 
thern air  would  be  just  the  thing  to  suit  me.  But  of 
course  now  that  is  out  of  the  queston.  I  have  a  sister 
here  in  New  York  who  will  take  good  care  of  the  poor 
invalid.  Goodbye,  once  more,  and  my  best  wishes  go 
with  you ! " 


204 


SLINOR   PRESTON. 


'•Confound  the  good-natured  hosthoon^^  said  George, 
with  a  burst  of  exuberant  mirth,  after  Hampton  was  out 
of  hearing ;  "  he  looks  the  very  picture  of  health  and 
strength.  I  do  believe  he  might  face  either  the  polar 
ice  or  the  tropical  sun,  without  the  smallest  apprehen- 
sion. If  you  only  saw  that  fellow,  Elinor !  as  I  havo 
seen  him,  hard  at  work  at  a  dish  of  rare  beef-steak,  ad- 
mitting the  while  that  the  sea  air  gave  him  something 
of  an  appetite,  then  you  might  talk  of  eating.  You 
wouldn't  wonder  either  at  the  coat  of  fat  he  has  on 
him.  But  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Mrs.  White's  girl — 
Margaret  I  think  you  call  her — is  in  the  next  room  wait 
ing  to  see  you." 

"  Waiting  to  see  me !  why,  I  thought  she  was  half 
way  to  Boston  by  this  time  with  her  father — you  know 
he  met  her  at  the  wharf. 

"  I  know  he  did,  but  it's  pretty  clear  that  they  haven't 
started  yet.  I'm  going  out  now  to  try  and  find  our 
friend  Mulligan — he  is  partner  in  a  large  wholesale 
house  in  Pearl  street.  If  I  find  him,  he  will,  of  course, 
show  us  the  city — that  is,  unless  he  has  lost  his  good- 
nature— if  so,  we  must  do  the  best  we  can ! " 

When  Margaret  made  her  appearance  I  was  perfectly 
astonished,  and  her  first  words  were  not  at  all  calcula- 
ted to  enlighten  me.  "  You  see  I  have  come  back  to 
yow,  after  all.  Miss  Preston !  an'  if  you'll  only  take  me 
with  you  wherever  your  goin',  I'll  not  ask  a  penny  of 
wages,  and  I'll  work  for  you  night  an'  day." 

*'  Why,  Magaret,  I  don't  understand  you  at  all.    I 


BLINOR   PRESTON. 


209 


of 


thought  yeu  were  gone  home  with  your  father  to  Bog 
ton ! " 

"  Home ! "  she  repeated,  with  bitter  emphasis,  "  ho 
has  no  home  for  me.  He  has  a  second  wife,  it  seems, 
"  an'  it's  what  he  said  to  me :  *  Maggie !  your  mother 
an'  you  will  get  along  well  together, — '  my  mother,  says 
I,  *  why,  isn't  she  dead  years  ago,  to  my  heavy  grief?' 
— *  oh !  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure,'  says  he,  *  but  I  don't 
mane  Acr,  I  mane  your  new  mother ' — *  my  new  mother ! 
and  who  is  she  % '  *  Oh !  I  see  you  didn't  get  the  letter 
I  sent  you  about  two  years  back  with  an  account  of  my 
second  marriage.  I  was  so  lonesome,  you  see,  after 
I  heard  of  your  poor  mother's  death,  that  my  health  it- 
self was  getting  low  enough,  so  I  though  I'd  get  some- 
body to  keep  me  company,  an'  see  to  me  if  sickness 
came  on.  fihe's  a  clane,  dacent  girl  from  near  our  own 
place — a  daughter  of  ould  Barney  Dwyer's.  *  So  you've 
put  another  in  her  place  already.  An'  have  you  any 
family  ? ' — *  we  have,'  says  he,  '  one  little  fellow  about 
a  year  old.'  '  Well,  father  !'  says  I  back  again,  *  I  sup- 
pose Nancy  Dwyer  would  be  well  pleased  to  have  me 
to  mind  the  young  one,  but  I  tell  you  plainly  I'd  sooner 
beg  my  bred  from  door  to  door.  If  I  had  got  the  letter 
you  were  speakin'  of,  I'd  never  have  set  foot  in  America^ 
God  be  with  you,  father !  you  may  go  home  and  tell 
Nancy  Dwyer  that  you  have  good  news  for  her,  for  I'll 
never  darken  her  door !  I'm  able  and  willin'  to  earn 
my  own  bread,  an'  please  God  I'll  do  it ! '  Well !  he 
tried  hard  to  persuade  me  to  go  with  him,  but  it  was 
all  no  use ;  so  he  went  off  at  last,  afther  givin  me  this 
18 


206 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


ten  dollar  bill,  an'  God  forgive  me,  miss !  but  I'm  sure 
he  was  right  glad  at  bottom  that  I  didn't  go." 

In  my  heart  I  could  not  help  sympathizing  with  the 
poor  motherless  girl,  although  my  reason  condemned 
her  course.  I  thought  of  my  own  mother,  and  how  I 
would  have  felt  had  my  dear  father  taken  another  wife 
but  one  short  year  after  her  death.  Still  I  could  not 
openly  approve  of  what  Margaret  had  done,  and  I  told 
her  I  was  surprised  at  a  girl  of  her  good  sense  refusing 
to  go  home  with  her  father  when  he  came  so  far  to  meet 
her. 

This  brought  a  gush  of  tears  from  Margaret's  eyes. 
"  Ah  then.  Miss  Preston  dear !  you  woudn't  blame  me 
for  it,  if  you  only  knew  what  a  mother  I  had — sure  there 
wasn't  the  likes  of  her,  myself  thinks,  on  Irish  ground, 
an'  that's  a  great  word  entirely.  I'm  only  just  gettin' 
over  my  throuble  now,  an'  if  I  went  into  the  house  with, 
the  woman  that's  in  her  place,  I'm  sure  it  'id  soon  be 
the  death  of  me.  God  forgive  me  if  it's  a  sin,  but  some- 
how I  haven't  the  same  love  or  likin'  for  my  father  since 
he  told  me  of  it.  Won't  you  take  me  with  you,  miss? 
' — ah  do ! " 

"  But,  my  poor  girl !  what  would  you  do  going  with 
mel  I  shall  be,  most  likely,  living  in  some  family  as 
governess,  or  something  of  that  kind, — however,  I  may 
do  something  for  you  here— or  if  not,  why  you  can  come 
with  me  to  Canada  and  seek  your  fortune  there.  Don'* 
cry  now,  Margaret — I  will  take  you  up  to  my  bed-roonr 
and  you  can  stay  there  for  the  present  till  I  see  wha 
ca:  be  done."    Thus  consoled,  Margaret  dried  her  tear^ 


ELINOR   FRE&TON. 


207 


n't 


and  followed  me  with  alacrity  up  stairs  where,  to  her 
great  satisfaction,  I  gave  her  some  sewing,  and  left  her 
with  an  injunction  to  be  of  good  heart. 

With  this  additional  source  of  anxiety  in  my  mind,  I 
awaited  George's  return,  which  was  delayed  longer  than 
I  had  expected  by  some  weary  hours.  He  came  at 
length,  and  to  my  very  agreeable  surprise,  was  accom- 
panied by  Edward  Houlahan  and  another  gentleman,  in 
whose  embrowned,  foreign-looking  features  I,  after  a 
moment's  careful  scrutiny,  recognized  a  still  older  ac- 
quaintance. The  latter  was  no  other  than  Redmond 
O'Rourke  who  had  been  for  years  and  years  my  poor 
father's  confidential  clerk,  though,  like  ray  brother,  he 
turned  out  in  the  end  to  have  no  vocation  for  the  law. 
Houlahan  had  been  for  several  years  in  Mr.  Delany's 
employment,  and  was  still  deeply  interested  in  the  for- 
tunes of  the  sole  survivor  of  the  family,  my  friend  Mrs. 
Arthur  Dillon,  It  was  whispered  in  Dublin  circles  at 
the  time  that  Edward,  had  he  dared,  would  have  aspired 
to  become  the  old  man's  son-in-law,  and  the  memory  of 
that  forgotten  rumor  rushed  vividly  across  my  mind  as 
I  marked  the  faint  flush  on  the  sallow  cheek  of  the  ap- 
parently middle-aged  man  before  me  while  I  spol^e  of 
Maria,  her  husband,  and  the  little  one  for  whom  I  had 
answered  at  the  font — almost  the  last  thing  before  I 
left  Ireland.  Houlahan,  it  appeared,  was  still  unmar- 
ried, but  not  so  was  it  with  his  friend  O'Rourke  who 
rejoiced,  he  said,  in  the  possession  of  a  wife  and  four 
children.  "  Altered  times,"  said  he,  "  Master  George, 
sinoe  I  used  to  be  gallanting  the  three  Miss  O'Sullivans 


21^ 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


every  Sunday  out  to  Lucan  Spa  and  the  Strawbcrrr} 
Beds.  Poor  Lucy — my  flame, — I  hear  she  died  of  con 
sumption  a  year  or  two  after  I  left.  Well !  those  wer 
pleasant  days  after  all;  and,  I  must  confess,  notwith 
standing  the  high  value  I  am  at  all  times  disposed  t€ 
set  on  Mrs.  Redmond  O'Rourke  and  the  youngsters— 
not  to  speak  of  certain  dollars  and  cents  which  I  have 
succeeded  in  putting  together — I  do  often  catch  myself 
humming  with  undoubted  feeling. 


« 


Oh !  would  I  were  a  boj  again ! " 


You  know  I  was  never  much  given  to  the  sentimental, 
and  on  the  whole  I  am  well  contented  just  now,  but  I 
assure  you  there  are  times  when  memory  travels  back 
to  the  pleasant  shades  of  ancient  Cullen's  Wood  and 
sports  along  the  Rathmines  road  at  a  deuced  smart  pace, 
too,  just  as  this  body  of  mine,  now  so  lank  and  business 
worn,  used  to  canter  along  on  my  hired  pony  in  the 
bright  summer  Sundays  •*  long,  long  ago  "  when  I  was  a 
gorsoon^  and  poor  Lucy  O'Sullivan  a  fair-haired  little 
belle  in  her  teens  !  heigho  ! — But  I  say,  Master  George ! 
—I  beg  pardon,"  he  added,  correcting  himself  with  some- 
thing of  his  former  humor, — "I  beg  pardon,  Ensign 
Preston !  you  must  not  think  of  leaving  us,  at  least  for 
some  days.  You  must  see  the  city,  let  your  military 
hurry  be  ever  so  great. 

"As  far  as  two  days  go,  Redmond,"  said  George 
with  a  smile,  "  we  can  devote  that  time  to  your  Empire 
City.     But  tell  me  candidly — ^you  are  both  half-Amcr 


\ 


ELINOR   PRBSTOK. 


200 


icans  now — have  you  anything  here  that  will  interest  us? 
For  my  part,  I  am  inclined  to  doubt  it." 

O^Eourke  laughed,  and  Houluhan  pulled  up  his  shirt 
collar  by  way  of  gaining  time.  "  Ha !  ha  !  Master 
George,  youVe  putting  English  airs  on  you  already, 
in  virtue  of  the  livery — that  is  to  be.  You  think  we 
have  nothing  here  worth  a  look  from  European  eyes, 
but  wait  till  to-morrow,  my  fine  fellow !  and  let  our  city 
speak  for  itself.  I  want  to  take  you  and  Miss  Preston 
home  now — my  old  woman  will  be  delighted  to  have  you 
for  guests."  To  this  we  did  not  immediately  consent, 
but  we  agreed  to  pay  Mrs.  O'Rourke  a  visit. 

"  Your  old  woman  !  "  repeated  George,  as  I  left  the 
room  to  prepare ;  *'  is  your  wife,  then,  approaching  the 
vale  of  V ears?" 

Houlahan  laughed,  and  slapped  his  ftuend  on  the 
shoulder :  "  There  now,  O'Rourke !  you  boast  of  pre- 
serving your  Irish  phraseology — how  do  you  feel 
now  %  " 

"  Poh !  poh ! "  said  O'Rourke,  "  that's  nothing.  No, 
George,  no,  she  aint  much  over  thirty — she's  young 
enough  for  that  matter — it's  only  a  familiar  way  we 
have  of  mentioning  a  matrimonial  partner  in  this  young 
country." 

"  Yes !  "  put  in  his  companion,  "  men  and  women  are 
old  here  as  soon  as  they  put  their  heads  in  the  noose-— 
that's  one  reason  why  your  humble  servant  always  shirk- 
ed it,  being  desirous  to  keep  on  the  bright  side  of  life  as 
long  as  possible." 

When  we  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  O'Rourkei 


210 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


ve  were  so  repelled  by  the  listless  coldness  of  her  ej 
terior  that  her  very  faint  invitation,  seconding  that  pre 
viously  given  by  her  husband,  gave  us  no  desire  t( 
make  her  house  our  home  even  for  two  days.  We  in- 
stinctively felt — both  of  us — that  even  a  hotel  was  bet- 
ter than  the  house  of  a  woman  like  that  whose  heart  and 
soul  were  evidently  circumscribed  by  the  limits  of  her 
own  family.  No !  no !  there  was  no  companionship 
there  for  me.  The  woman  actually  seemed  to  fear  that 
we  might  possibly  consent  to  trouble  her  for  a  day  or 
two — perhaps  with  that  prospect  in  view,  namely,  the 
uncongenial  society  and  entertainment  of  Redmond's 
Irish  friends  for  two  whole  days — she  might  have  put 
on  an  extra  coat  of  ice ;  but  whether  or  not,  we  civilly 
declined  her  "  Won't  you  stay  1 "  excused  ourselves  to 
Redmond  as  well  as  we  could — in  confidence  be  it  said 
that  even  he  was  not  so  pressing  as  we  might  have  ex- 
pected ; — alas !  for  the  changes  that  hearts  undergo  in 
foreign  climes ! — and  even  declined  tresspassing  on  his 
valuable  time  by  accepting  his  services  as  cicerone. 
Poor  Redmond  seemed  somewhat  hurt,  especially  when 
he  found  that  Houlahan  was  to  be  our  guide,  but  even 
that  feeling  was  not  expressed  with  the  honest  warmth 
"which  it  would  have  had  in  former  days,  and  Redmond 
left  us  at  the  door  of  our  hotel,  apparently  quite  satis- 
fied by  our  promise  to  dine  with  him  on  the  following 
day.  ' 

Houlahan  accompanied  us  up  stairs  and  I  could  not 
help  remarking  to  him  that  I  was  disaapppointed  in  his 
friend's  wife,  and  even  in  himself — as  fai  as  his  recep 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


211 


n 

IS 
€. 

n 
n 
h 


tion  of  old  friends  went.  Iloulahan  smiled — "  I  am 
afraid,  Miss  Preston,  you  would  never  do  for  this  me« 
ridian — that  is,  you  would  find  yourself  wofully  mis- 
placed here.  That  heartiness  which  was  a  reality  at 
home — a  recognized  fact  in  the  social  circle,  is  hardly 
known  here  even  by  name.  Society  here  is,  for  the 
most  part,  a  meretricious  glitter  ;  it  has  in  it  little  of 
that  genial  warmth  which  diffused  so  pleasant  a  glow  in 
our  little  sphere  at  home :  people  in  these  parts  are 
straining  might  and  main  to  outshine  their  neighbors — 
show — show — show — that  is  the  idol  before  which  young 
and  old  bow  down,  and  the  consequence  is  that  society 
is  hollow  and  heartless — empty  as  the  prophet's  gourd. 
Money  we  make  here,  but  happiness  and  social  enjoy- 
ment are  myths — mere  myths — very  pleasant  to  think 
of,  at  least  for  a  poor  fellow  like  me  who  has  a  dim  re- 
membrance of  such  things — but  not  to  be  had  for  love 
or  money." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  I  am  particularly  sorry  to  find  Mrs. 
O'Rourke  so  very  cold,  for  I  have  a  girl  in  charge  whom 
I  hoped  to  consign  to  her  care  when  leaving." 

Houlahan  inquired  what  I  meant,  and  I  barely  told 
him  that  the  girl  was  one  to  whom  I  had  taken  a  fancy 
on  our  passage  out.  I  also  told  him  of  her  refusing  to 
go  home  with  her  father  on  account  of  his  second  mar- 
riage, 

"  By  George !  "  cried  Houlahan,  "  I  admire  her  spirit. 
I  had  a  step-mother  myself  once  upon  a  time,  and  I  gave 
her  and  my  father  leg-bail  for  my  honesty  one  fine 
mornhg.    It  was  that  very  thing  that  first  sent  me  to 


212 


ELINOR   PRK0TOX. 


Dublin.  I  have  a  good  many  acquaintenccs  here,  and 
I'll  make  it  my  business  to  speak  to  some  of  them — 
that  is,  of  course,  my  lady  acquaintances — this  very 
evening  about  yoxxr  protegee.  Never  fear  but  we'll  find 
her  a  good  berth." 

Iloulahan  was  as  good  as  his  word.  On  the  fbllowing 
day  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  my  little  Margaret 
very  comfortably  settled  in  the  domicile  of  a  certain 
Mrs.  Brady,  a  widow  lady  with  a  large  family  of  grown- 
up sons  and  daughters,  having  plenty  of  means,  and  the 
heart  to  divide  them  in  a  measure  with  those  who  had 
none.  This  was  certainly  a  great  load  off  my  mind,  and 
to  make  me  feel  still  more  at  ease,  one  of  the  young 
ladies  very  kindly  promised  to  let  me  know  occasionally 
how  Margaret  got  on,  for  the  family  were  quite  prepoa- 
sed  with  her  appearance,  and  expected  to  find  her  very 
useful. 

With  Margaret  Gilmartin  disappeared  the  last  of  my 
marine  acquaintances,  and  never  again  did  one  of 
them  cross  my  path.  They  have  all  fallen  back  into 
the  dim  world  of  shadows,  ay  !  even  the  fleshy  bulk  of 
Mr.  Hampton  has  dissolved  into  thin  air.  Of  the 
Wortleys  (^ly  the  recollection  is  still  vivid,  and  it  seems 
they  have  not  even  partially  forgotten  me.  Kebecca 
and  I  kept  up  for  some  years  a  correspondence,  which, 
broken  and  irregular  as  it  was,  still  served  to  fan  the 
flicikering  flame  of  memory.  After  a  year  or  two  Wil- 
liam went  home  to  England  on  business  for  the  firm, 
and,  while  there,  married  a  young  lady  whom  Rebecca, 
in  her  subsequent  letters,  described  as  very  accomplished 


ELINOR   PRK8T0V. 


213 


and  very  amiable,  '*  (hough  no  beauty,"  added  my 
friendly  correspondent,  "nor  even  one-half  so  handsome 
as  one  whoin  we  ail  remember  but  too  well ;  still  she 
makes  a  good  wif«'.  and  a  kind  daughter-in-law — though 
my  father  has  hardly  )eL  forgiven  her  for  stopping  un- 
wittingly inlo  a  certain  pair  of  shoes  which  he  had  been 
hopefully  keeping  for  a  tiny  little  pair  of  Irish  feet  that 
are  wandering  in  ghostly  guise  somewhere  in  your  di- 
rection." 

But  why  digress  in  this  unpardonable  way  to  give  a 
partial  glimpse  of  the  future,  when  Mr.  Houlahan  is  ac- 
tually waiting  hat  in  hand  to  do  the  honors  of  "  New 
York  City  "  to  George  and  myself,  a  pair  of  expectants 
not  over  eager,  for,  to  say  the  truth,  we  were  rather  in- 
credulous as  to  the  sights  of  the  Empire  City. 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  Houlahan,  "  never  mind — I  may 
probably  undeceive  you  before  we  part — I  have  a  sort 
of  notion  that  I  shall. ^' 

When  our  friend  had  kindly  shown  us  through  the 
city,  and  pointed  out  everything  that  he  thought  calcu- 
lated to  interest  us,  we  were  agreeably  disappointed. 
Though  necessarily  wanting  in  the  monuments  of  art 
which  make  the  European  cities  grand  and  venerable, 
there  is  still  much  to  admire  in  the  commercial  capitiil 
of  the  United  States.  Contrasted  with  Liverpool  it  is 
both  beautiful  and  magnificent,  although  the  traveller 
would  hesitate  to  compare  it,  in  any  way,  with  Paris 
London,  Dublin,  or  Edinburgh,  each  distinctive  in  their 
own  character.  As  you  walk  between  the  stately  rowa 
of  brick  or  brown  stone  houses  in  the  countless  streets 


214 


ICLINOR    PR£8T0N. 


appropriated  to  private  dwelliogs,  you  feel  that  you  aw 
in  an  American  city.  The  abodes  of  wealth  are  around 
you — many  of  them  of  almost  palatial  magnificence; 
but  they  want  the  stamp  of  antiquity,  they  are  all  **bran 
new  " — to  use  a  vulgar  Irish  phrase — and  their  newness 
takes  from  their  grandeur  in  European  eyes.  To  a 
native  of  Dublin,  for  instance,  nothing  in  New  York  can 
make  up  for  the  want  of  public  squares  planted  at  inter- 
vals through  the  city,  and  with  all  the  ground  that  is 
to  spare  in  the  vicinity,  it  struck  us  as  singular  that  the 
City  Fathers  have  never  provided  a  decent  park  for 
the  recreation  and  pastimes  of  their  municipal  children.* 
But  no  Phoenix  Park  have  they,  nor  even  a  Regent's 
Park.  The  little  triangular  grass  plot  which  they  fa- 
cetiously call  the  Park,  though  prettily  planted  with 
trees,  and  ornamented  with  a  fountain,  is  neither  more 
nor  less  than  a  burlesque  on^arks  in  general :  it  might 
do  for  "  the  Park  "  of  an  ambitious  country  town,  but 
for  a  city  like  New  York  it  is  a  mere  toy  park  much 
like  the  Swiss  villages  fabricated  for  the  amusement  of 
children.  Neither  are  the  public  buildings  of  New 
York  at  all  what  we  might  expect — at  least  I  thought 
so,  yet  I  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  over  twenty 
Catholic  churches,!  few  of  them,  it  is  true,  possessed  of 


*  The  reader  will  see  that  this  was  written  before  the  Central  Pi.rk 
was  commenced.  Never  more  can  the  traveller  reproach  New  York 
with  the  want  of  a  real  Park*  Few  cities  can  boast  of  one  such  aa 
the  citizens  of  New  York  now  possess. 

t  There  are  now  about  thirty  churches,  together  with  several  re* 
ligious  bouses  in  and  around  the  citj. 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


215 


Pwk 

York 

ich  aa 


much  architectural  beauty,  but  all  valuable  as  monu- 
ments of  faith  and  piety. 

"  For  many  of  these,"  said  Houlahan,  "  we  may  thank 
the  pious  liberality  of  our  own  people,  here  as  well  ai 
at  home,  fond  of  erecting  temples  to  the  Most  High.  I 
assure  you  their  hard  earnings  are  the  main  support  of 
many  a  church  in  our  proudest  cities." 

"Well!  whoever  put  them  up,"  said  George,  "or 
whoever  worships  at  their  altars,  they  are  highly  cred- 
itable to  them,  not,  to  be  sure,  for  their  beauty  or  mag- 
nificence, but  for  their  number ! — and  that,  after  all,  is 
the  main  thing, — the  architectural  pomp  will  come  with 
time.  But  now  that  we  have  made  the  grand  round, 
Houlahan,  what  are  we  going  to  do  with  ourselves? 
We  do  not  start  for  Montreal  before  six  in  the  evening." 

"  Oh  !  I  have  a  few  sights  to  show  you  yet,"  said 
Houlahan,  whereupon  it  was  agreed  that  we  should  first 
secure  our  dinner  and  then  see  the  remaining  lions. 
Amongst  them  was  the  American  Museum — Barnum, 
the  great  American  humbug — the  prince  of  humbugs — 
unequalled,  perhaps,  in  any  age, — the  Battery,  that 
woody  fringe  tacked  on  to  the  sliirt  of  Manhattan  Island, 
and  the  really  magnificent  view  it  commands  over  the 
bay  of  New  York,  its  fortified  islands,  and  its  endless 
variety  of  shipping  from  the  great  ocean  steamer  and 
the  stately  first-class  packet  to  the  tiny  fishing-smack 
and  the  miniature  steamers  which  ply  the  numerous  fer- 
ries around  the  vast  city.  On  the  whole,  we  were  much 
pleased,  and  not  a  little  entertained  with  what  we  saw 
in  New  York  j  and  although  we  had  discovered  but  few 


# 


2iG 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


I 


_  of  the  many  friends  whom  we  expected  to  meet,  still 
\  our  recollections  of  the  Empire  City  were  rather  pleas- 
ant than  otherwise;  and  as  we  were  facing  a  country 
whore  weT  knew  no  one,  we  both  of  us  bade  farewell  to  our 
kind  friends,  Houlahan  and  O'Rourke,  and  even  O'Rourke'a 
cool  little  wife,  with  hearts  much  depressed.  Facing 
northwards  we  seemed  leaving  our  "  known  world  "  be- 
hind— we  were  steering,  like  Columbus,  for  regions  be- 
yond our  ken ;  and  our  minds  were  occupied  with  many 
a  problem  of  thrilling  interest  to  ourselves  as  we  steamed 
up  the  bold  North  River — "  the  mighty  Hudson,"  famed 
in  song, — after  waving  a  last  salute  to  Houlahan  and 
O'Rourke,  the  two  links  which  had  hitherto  kept  the 
past  before  us.  With  them  we  again  lost  sight  of  Ire 
land — at  least  we  felt  so ;  and  not  even  the  noble  features 
of  the  country  on  either  side — the  wild  grandeur  of  the 
Hudson  Highlands — the  fantastic  forms  of  the  steep 
rocks  which  overhung  the  stream,  nor  the  fairy  beauty 
of  the  river  itself,  reflecting  all  these  objects  on  its  sil 
very  surface,  could  divert  our  minds  from  the  dim  un 
iLnown  future  about  to  open  before  us. 


BLDTOB  PRSBTOW. 


217 


CHAPTER   VIII. 


un 


HATEVER  amusement  or  pleasure 
we  might  have  found  in  the  all  but 
matchless  scenery  of  the  Hudson,  dull- 
ness and  dejection  settled  down  on  us 
lone  wanderers  when  at  Troy  we  ex- 
changed the  cheerful  airy  deck  of  one 
of  its  best  steamers  for  the  dreary  pen  called 
a  canal-boat, — for  those  were  the  days  of 
canal-boats — that  safe  but  most  intolerable 
of  all  lumbering  water-machines.  We  mod- 
erns may  turn  up  our  noses  at  the  cumbrous 
stage-coaches  of  a  by  gone  day,  but  what  was 
their  tedium  to  that  of  the  canal-boat  1  True,  it  is  one 
of  the  safest  of  all  conveyances,  and  mahy  thousands  of 
valuable  lives  would  in  all  probability  have  been  saved 
to  society  within  the  last  few  years,  had  human  science 
never  gone  beyond  them,  but  still  we  cannot  help  ad- 
mitting that  in  the  present  age  of  the  world,  travelling 
by  canal  is  about  the  same  with  regard  to  speed  as  trav- 
elling on  ass-back — ^I  beg  pardon  for  the  irreverent  al« 
19 


i 


218 


ELINOR   PRBSTON. 


lusion  to  that  much  slandered  animal.  In  fact  there  are 
so  many  points  of  similarity  between  the  two — dull  and 
heavy,  slow  and  sure,  as  they  both  are — that  we  may 
not  uniiptly  style  the  canal-boat  the  ass  of  the  waters. 
If  ever  any  human  being  was  sick  of  weariness  it  was 
my  poo-  self  during  the  twenty-four  hours,  I  think  it  was, 
that  it  took  us  to  go  from  Troy  to  Whitehall.  The 
country  through  which  we  travelled  had  nothing  in  it  to 
interest  a  stranger — we  had  no  society  on  board — ^not  a 
soul  worth  speaking  of,  and  the  weather  was  of  that  kind 
that  depresses  both  mind  and  body— dull,  gray,  and 
sultry  as  weather  could  be.  So  there  we  all  sat  the 
live  long  day  on  two  rows  of  red  cushions,  looking  at 
each  other,  such  as  we  were,  across  the  long  table,  until 
I  verily  believe  we  could  have  painted  every  face  of  the 
cabin  passengers  from  the  tablets  of  memory  at  any 
given  time  after  our  landing.  Well  for  us  if  they  had 
been  even  a  good-looking  company — ^agreeable  pictures 
for  reminiscence,  but  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge  they 
were  as  ill-favored  a  set  of  people — ^as  dreary  and  un- 
sociable, as  ever  formed  parallel  lines  in  the  cabin  of  a 
canal-packet.  Oh !  that  weary,  weary  journey — what  a 
leaden  hue  it  wears  away  back  among  the  varied  scenes 
of  my  life ! 

Happily  we  were  soon  to  have  a  change.  At  White- 
hall, the  bleakest  of  all  bleak  villages,  we  got  on  board 
a  very  trim  and  tasteful  steamer  to  make  the  voyage  of 
Lake  Champlain,  and  it  was  life  to  find  ourselves  once 
more  afloat  on  a  broad  clear  sheet  of  water  with  a  brisk 
autumn  bra  ze  agitating  its  surface,  the  Green  Mountains 


ELI19«>R   PRESTON. 


219 


^hite- 
)oard 
re  of 
once 
Ibrisk 
itains 


of  Vermont  and  the  far-off  Highlands  of  New  York  on 
either  side.  The  scenery  on  Lake  Cham  plain  is  very 
fine,  especially  as  we  approach  the  Canadian  frontier, 
where  it  begins  to  narrow  in,  and  its  picturesque  aspect 
contributed  not  a  little  to  dispel  the  thick  clouds  of  des- 
pondency from  my  mind  and  the  dark  misgivings  which 
had  begun  to  haunt  me.  The  rich,  many-colored  woods, 
and  towering  rocks  and  silvery  surface  of  that  lovely 
lake  did  more  to  give  us  a  favorable  impression  of  Can- 
ada than  any  amount  of  reasoning  could  have  done.  A 
couple  of  hours  ride  from  St.  John's — at  the  northern 
extremity  of  Lake  Champlain — brought  us  to  the  village 
of  La  Prairie,  in  the  most  sedate,  ambling,  quiet  rail- 
road-car we  ever  put  foot  in — a  perfect  match  for  the 
Troy  an4  Whitehall  packet,  if  ever  there  was  one  to  be 
found  following  in  the  wake  of  an  iron  horse. 

Lapra.  e  was  certainly  a  discouraging  specimen  of  a 
Canadian  village — ^whatever  change  may  have  taken 
place  there  since,  there  was  no  appearance  of  taste,  no 
order,  and  no  cleanliness  to  boast  of  then. 

"  Well  I  "  said  George,  with  sly  meaning,  as  we  trav- 
ersed the  wooden  pier  leading  out  to  where  the  ferry- 
boat lay  waiting  for  us — "  what  do  you  think  of  this,  ma 
belle  Elinor  %  lliis  village  of  the  prairie  makes  but  a 
sorry  impression  on  behalf  of  your  beau  Canada, 

"  Well !  considering  that  it  is  so  near  the  capital,  I 
must  own  it  is  somewhat  of  the  shabbiest,  but  don't  be 
too  ready  to  judge  by  appearances — let  us  wait  till  we 
have  seen  Montreal — that  will  be  a  fair  test." 

So  saying,  I  seated  myself  on  the  side  of  the  boat 


im 


ELINOR   PREiTON. 


ii 


il 


facing  the  north  bank  of  the  river,  and  looked  eagerly 
out  for  the  first  appearance  of  the  city  which,  in  all 
probability,  was  to  be  my  home  in  the  New  World.  At 
length  it  appeared  above  the  heaving  surface  of  the  river, 
and  although  it  presented  a  strange  and  foreign  aspect, 
still  the  picture  was  a  fine  one  and  it  somehow  cheered 
my  drooping  heart.  Stretching  apparently  for  miles 
along  the  margin  of  the  great  river,  lay  the  fair  city  of 
Montreal — the  chosen  city  of  Mary — with  its  tin  roofs 
reflecting  the  midday  sun,  and  a  stately  mountain 
wooded  to  the  summit,  rearing  its  giant  bulk  behind  for 
great  part  of  the  city's  length.  Gloriously  conspicuous 
about  the  very  centre  rose  two  massive  Gothic  towers, 
crenellated  and  surmounted  by  graceful  minarets  at 
every  corner.  This  my  heart  told  me  was  a  Catholic 
church — most  probably  dedicated  to  the  mother  of 
Christians.  So  uplifted  was  I  at  the  thought  that  it  was 
with  an  anxious  heart  I  asked  a  gentleman  who,  by  his 
clerical  costume,  I  judged  to  be  a  priest,  what  that  was, 
pointing  to  the  square  Gothic  towers. 

"  That — oh !  that  is  Notre  dame  de  Montreal — 
commonly  called  here  the  French  Church.  It  is  the 
parish  church  of  Montreal,  and  was  built  by  the  Semin- 
ary of  St.  Sulpice." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  I  fervently  exclaimed.  The  gentle- 
man looked  at  me  and  a  benevolent  smile  lit  up  his  dark, 
sun-bronzed  features. 

"  So,  my  good  young  lady !  you  have  a  different 
feeling  in  regard  to  yonder  towers  from  that  expressed 
by  a»,  minister  of  s  )me  sect  who  crossing  here  from  the 


tf 


ELINOR   PRESTOir. 


22] 


mtle- 
lark) 

[rent 
Issed 
the 


States  just  as  we  are  now,  and  struck  by  thj  noble  as- 
pect of  the  parish  church,  asked  like  you,  what  towers 
those  were.  On  being  told  he  raised  his  hands  and  eyes 
in  holy  horror,  and  with  a  deep  groan  ejaculated  :  *  Alas ! 
alas !  the  horns  of  Babylon  ! ' " 

"  Poor  man  !  "  said  my  brother,  who  had  now  joined 
us,  after  exchanging  a  courteous  salute  with  the  clergy- 
man, "  poor  man !  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  had  a  fit  of  dys- 
pepsy  lafter  that — a  Catholic  city  rearing  such  monu- 
ments as  those  churches  to  the  sky,"  pointing  as  he  spoke 
to  the  many  cross-crowned  buildings  which  we  could  now 
distinguish,  "was  rather  too  much  for  his  highly  re- 
formed stomach  to  digest." 

The  good  priest  was  much  pleased  with  George's  man- 
ner of  speaking,  and  during  the  short  remainder  of  the 
voyage  he  attached  himself  exclusively  to  us,  inquiring 
with  the  kindest  interest  as  to  where  we  came  from, 
and  what  our  prospects  were  in  Canada. 

"Ah  ! "  said  he,  "  I  might  have  known  that  you  were 
from  Ireland — there  is  a  warmth,  a  simple  fervor  about 
the  Irish  in  matters  affecting  religion  which  distinguishes 
them  from  all  others.  I  must  confess  I  have  not  often 
met  persons  of  your  stamp  coming  direct  from  Ireland— 
my  experience  of  your  people  has  been  chiefly  with  the 
lower  and  more  uneducated  classes,  but  even  vith  re- 
gard to  them,  my  remark  holds  good.  I  am  a  French 
Canadian  myself,  but  I  must  say  I  have  a  great  respect 
for  Irish  Catholics." 

The  cordial  welcome  of  this  good  gentleman  when  wd 
landed  on  the  wharf— -and  magnificent  wharves  Montreal 


222 


XLINOR   PRESTON. 


bas,  loo  magnificent  for  her  present  commerce— was 
very  encouraging,  and  when  he  lefk  us  to  go  to  the  Sem- 
inary, where  there  is  open  house  at  all  times  for  priests, 
he  promised  to  come  and  see  us  at  our  hotel  with  one  of 
the  clergymen  belonging  to  the  city,  whom  it  would  be 
well  for  us  to  know. 

"  Before  you  go,  sir,"  said  I,  "  permit  me  to  make  one 
remark.  I  had  always  understood  that  Montreal  had  no 
commerce  at  all  commensurate  to  her  fine  position,  mid- 
way, as  it  were,  between  the  great  Lakes  and  the  Gulf. 
It  is  an  agreeable  surprise  to  me  to  see  such  a  goodly 
display  of  shipping,"  and  I  pointed  to  the  long  line  of 
ships,  many  of  them  evidently  from  beyond  seas,  nearly 
all  with  the  union  jack  floating  from  their  yards. 

"Ah  !  ah  !  "  said  the  priest,  "  you  must  not  judge  from 
that — it  is  September  now.  Mademoiselle,  and  we  have 
the  fall  fleet '  in — ^at  least  part  of  it.  There  are  seasons 
when  we  have  very  little  shipping  here — before  many 
months  go  by,  there  won't  be  a  sail  to  be  seen  at  all 
along  the  St.  Lawrence."  At  first  I  was  simple,  or  for- 
getful enough  to  express  my  amazement,  whereupon 
the  good  priest  laughed  heartily,  and  George  laughed 
too.  ^ 

"  Why,  you  simple  girl,"  said  he,  "  have  you  forgot- 
ten that  the  ice-king  keeps  his  Christmas  in  these  parts, 
and  in  very  sport  enchants  the  rivers  into  highways  1 " 

I  was  amused  at  my  own  forgetfulness,  the  more  so 
as  I  had  been  wont  to  look  forward  to  the  snowy,  icy 
w  tnter  of  Lower  Canada  as  something  new  and  fresh. 

The  priest  m;  de  his  bow  and  retired,  and  we  stepping 


I 


ELINOR   PSESTON. 


223 


ipon 
rhed 

[got- 
irts, 

so 
icy 

nng 


into  an  omnibus,  (the  only  omnibuses  used  in  the  Ca- 
nadian capital  are  those  belonging  to  the  hotels,)  were 
driven  to  one  of  the  first-class  hotels,  "  for,"  said  George, 
"  my  hotel-life  is  ended  for  the  present,  ^d  you  will,  of 
course,  seek  some  other  place  of  residence  as  soon  as 
possible,  so  the  depth,  or  rather  the  shallowness  of  our 
common  purse  is  of  no  great  consequence."  Poor 
George  could  never  get  over  his  reckless  disregard  of 
money.  He  was  made  for  either  of  the  two  arms  of  the 
United  Service,  and  nothing  else. 

A  few  weeks  saw  George  quite  at  home  in  his  new 
profession.  It  is  never  hard  for  a  dashing  young  fellow, 
such  as  he  was,  to  get  to  the  heart  of  a  militry  circle — 
if  he  be  of  the  right  stuff,  one  meal  at  the  mess-table  is 
quite  sufficient  to  make  him  one  of  the  family,  as  it  were. 
In  fact,  George  was  very  soon  the  prime  favorite  of  the 
mess-room,  and  when  he  walked  the  streets  in  the  hand- 
some uniform  of  the  gallant  — th,  he  was"  the  admiration 
of  all  that  numerous  class  of  young  ladies  who  have  a 
partiality  for  red  coats — especially  when  there  are 
"  bowld  sojer  boys  "  in  them.  He  was  happy,  for  such 
a  life  exactly  suited  his  disposition,  naturally  bright,  and 
very  much  averse  to  care  or  application  of  any  kind.  As 
for  me,  although  I  could  have  wished  to  see  him  in  a 
quieter  and  more  settled  way  of  life,  I  had  only  to  rec- 
oncile myself  to  it  as  well  as  I  could,  and  I  prayed  for 
him — oh,  how  fervently  ! — that  he  might  be  preserved 
even  as  were  the  three  young  Hebrews  in  the  fiery  fur- 
nace,  for  I  could  not,  or  did  not  conceal  from  myself^ 
that  he,  too,  was  in  a  fiery  furnace  little  less  dangerous 


224 


ELINOR   PRESTOK. 


than  that  of  the  Assyrian  tyrant.  For  myself  I  was 
tolerably  well  situated.  Through  the  kind  offices  of 
Mrs.  Colonel I  had  obtained  a  situation  as  compan- 
ion to  the  wife  of  a  superannuated  general  officer  settled 
in  Montreal.  The  duties  of  my  office  were  very  lights— 
merely  to  amuse  my  patroness  as  I  best  could,  and  in 
my  own  way,  when  we  were  alone,  and  to  assist  in  the 
entertainment  of  company,  which  was  by  far  the  heavi- 
est of  my  functions,  for  the  dear  old  lady  was  never  so 
well  pleased  as  when  she  had  her  house  full.  She  was 
very  deaf,  and,  as  is  usual  wth  deaf  people,  spoke  in  a 
loud,  harsh  voice.  Se  was,  notwithstanding  her  infirm- 
ity, given  to  "  much  talking,"  but  that  made  my  task  all 
the  lighter,  for  I  had  only  to  listen,  and  pay  just  is  much 
attention  as  enabled  me  to  retain  the  thread  of  her  dis- 
course. Of  the  general  we  saw  but  little,  for  he  still 
held  some  government  office  which  kept  him  moving  to 
and  fro  over  the  province.  When  he  did  pay  us  a  visit, 
it  was  very  welcome  to  the  entire  household  from  Lady 

down  to  Martha  the  housemaid,  and  Jenny  the 

cook,  who  had  been  for  years  in  the  family,  nay  !  Ponto, 
the  old  Newfoundland  dog,  was  gladdest  of  all  to  see 
his  master,  for  he,  too,  had  grown  old  in  the  service,  and 
had  *'  roamed  through  many  lands "  in  the  suite  of  the 

worthy  Brigadier.     Lady always  made  it  a  point 

to  celebrate  Sir  Henry's  arrival  by  a  grand  party, 
though  it  often  happened  that  she  had  had  one  within 
the  week.  It  was  plain  to  see  that  the  stern  old  officer 
took  no  particular  pleasure  in  these  gay  assemblies,  and 
he  always  appeared  like  a  fish  out  of  water.    He  was 


BLINOR  PBIBTO. 


225 


very  good-natured,  however,  and  use  to  saj  irhen  re- 
signing himself  with  a  sigh  to  the  gc/ieral  (.  ninot  n 
excited  in  the  house  by  the  approaching  event :  "  1  or 
Dorothy !  I  wish  she  could  devise  some  other  met  >d 
of  welcoming  me  home ! — ^but  parties  are  her  life,  and 
always  were  ever  since  I  knew  her,  so  she  can't  under- 
stand, or  never  could,  that  they're  a  positive  bore  to  an 
old  soldier  like  me  who  has  been  buffeting  the  world  for 
a  good  part  of  a  century.  Dorothy  must  have  her  own 
way,  however, — we're  both  too  old  to  begin  to  quarrel 
now.  But  oh !  Miss  Preston,  if  she'd  only  let  me  rest 
when  I  come  under  the  shadow  of  my  household  gods  ! " 

I,  of  course,  commiserated  the  good  general's  distress, 
especially  as  I  very  soon  grew  weary  myself  of  the  con- 
tinual bustle,  and  began  to  long  for  quiet.  Still  I  could 
not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  leave  the  kind  old  lady  who 
was  really  interested  in  my  welfare,  and  showed  it  in  a 
very  substantial  way,  though  occasionally  I  came  in  for 
a  lecture  on  my  "  tiresome  melancholy,"  and  for  a  cer- 
tain "  nasty  habit "  which   Lady said  I  had  "  of 

falling  into  reveries^'*  or  "  brown  studies,"  I  believe  she 
termed  them. 

"  Have  you  been  crossed  in  love,  my  dear  ?  or  what's 
the  matter  with  you  that  you  are  always  thinking  ?  " 

"  You  forget,  my  dear  madam,  that  I'  have  lost  within 
a  few  years  my  nearest  and  dearest — " 

"  Poh,  poh !  child !  is  that  all — doesn't  every  one  lose 
their  friends  and  relations  some  time  or  another  ?  I've 
been  an  orphan  myself  these  many  years !  " 

"  I  should  think  y  )u  had,"  thought  I,  "  for  half  a  cen- 


226 


ILINOR   PRISTOir. 




tury  at  least.**    The  thought  made  me  smile,  and  the 
smile  restored  the  dowager^s  good-humor  for  that  tiuie. 
Two  years  passed  away  pleasantly  enough  at  Lady 
's.     Notwithstanding  my  general  aversion  to  large 


parties,  I  began  rather  to  enjoy  the  great  variety  of  vis 
itors  we  had,  and  the  equally  great  diversity  of  their 
characters.  Among  these  I  particularly  relished  the 
unctuous  and  sweet  professors  of  the  word,  who  with  due 
regard  to  her  souFs  welfare,  and  (of  course)  a  certain 
consideration  for  the  good  things  so  freely  dispensed  at 
her  table,  availed  themselves  of  many  opportunities  to 
share  her  hospitality,  and  shout  their  several  systems 
of  theology  into  her  ear  in  a  way  that  was  quite  dog- 
matical. These  gentlemen  professed  a  great  horror  of 
military  society  in  general,  so  they  were  seldom  found 

at  any  of  Lady 's  grand  entertainments.    They  made 

up  for  it,  however,  during  the  short  intervals,  and  I  soon 
observed  that,  under  one  charitable  pretence  and  another, 
they  were  no  small  drain  on  the  old  lady*s  purse. 

I  had  not  been  long  in  the  house  before  I  discovered 
that  nearly  all  the  clerical  visitors  belonged  to  what  they 
called  the  French  Canadian  Missionary  Society.  The 
ostensible  object  of  this  association  was  the  conversion, 
as  they  termed  it,  of  the  Catholic  people  of  Lower  Can- 
ada ;  so  I  kept  my  eye  on  them  from  the  first,  and  many 
a  hearty  laugh  George  had  at  their  expense,  as  I  care- 
fully treasured  every  choice  morceau  of  their  intelligence 
for  his  private  instruction. 

Lady appeared  to  take  quite  an  interest  in  the 

afl^irs  of  the  Society,  and  she  was  in  the  habit  of  boasti 


■LINOR   PRESTON. 


227 


rered 
they 
The 
l-sion, 
ICan- 
lany 
ire- 
rence 

the 
>asti 


Ing  to  me  of  the  good  which  her  money  did  in  the  way 
of  diffuBing  religious  light  among  the  benighted  popula- 
tion of  the  country.  I  generally  answered  with  a  won- 
dering "  Indeed  !  "  for  I  very  early  found  out  that  argu- 
ment had  not  the  slightest  effect  on  the  good  lady^s  mind. 
I  had  told  her  over  and  over  again  of  the  age-long  sys- 
tem of  temptation  brought  to  bear  on  the  po(>r  starving 
Catholics  of  Western  Ireland,  with  the  vain  hope  of  draw- 
ing them  away  from  the  faith  of  their  fathers.  It  was 
no  use — she  would  cram  it  down  my  throat  that  Exeter 
Hall  had  done  wonders  in  the  way  of  converting  Irish 
papists,  that  the  latter  were  "  coming  forth  from  Baby- 
lon "  by  hundreds  and  thousands,  and  for  that  very  reason 
it  was  that  she  encouraged  the  efforts  of  the  F.  C.  M. 
Society.     What  could  I  say  to  such  reasoning  as  this  ? 

I  observed  all  along  that  the  affairs  of  "  the  Society  " 
were  never  brought  before  the  General,  and  for  some 
time  I  could  by  no  means  understand  why  his  Protes- 
tant sympathies  should  not  be  worked  upon  for  the 
greater  advancement  of  the  noble  object  which  his  spouse 
and  her  satellites  had  in  view.  For  the  first  few  months 
my  presence  was  no  obstacle  to  the  discussion  of  evan- 
gelical matters — a  latent  hope  being  entertained,  as  I 
afterward  found,  that  "  the  young  lady  from  Ireland " 
might  be  happily  "  snatched  from  the  burning."  Lat- 
terly, however,  this  hope  seemed  extinguished — in  gall, 
it  must  have  been,  for  the  extinction  made  the  ministers 
as  bitter  towards  me  as  such  blandly  apostolic  men  ever 
eould  be.  The  worst  of  it  was  that  I  lost  all  the  solemn 
farces  in  which  they  and  Lady were  the  actors. 


\ 


228 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


One  day  when  the  old  lady  was  waiting  in  the  draw- 
ing-room for  the  carriage  to  be  brought  out  for  the  a^ 
temoon  drive,  who  should  make  his  appearance  but  Mr, 
Prioff,  one  of  the  managing  men  of  the  F.  C.  M.  Society ; 
and  as  neither  the  lady  nor  gentleman  was  aware  of  my 
being  within  hearing — I  happened  to  be  in  the  music- 
room  copying  a  piece  of  music  which  George  had  bor- 
rowed from  the  band-master  of  his  regiment — the  zeal- 
ous missioner  proceeded  at  once  to  business. 

"  I  see  your  ladyship  is  just  going  out,"  said  the  very 
obsequious  big  man — for  he  was  a  big  man — a  big,  raw- 
boned  man — "  so  I  must  not  detain  you.  Our  funds  are 
very  low  indeed  at  the  present  moment,  and  I  have 
brought  you  a  list,  humbly  hoping  that  you  will  do 
something  for  us  amongst  your  friends." 

"  I  can't  promise  you  much  from  my  friends,"  said 

Lady ,  in  so  gruff  a  tone  that  I  actually  started  and 

dropped  my  pen ;  "  they're  not  over  favorable  to  your 
— ^I  mean  our  society  !  " 

"  Why,  how  is  that,  my  dear  madam  1 " 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you ! — ^they  say,  most  of  them,  that 
it's  a  regular  humbug  to  be  thrusting  the  Scriptures 
down  people's  throats  whether  they  will  or  no.  Some 
of  them  tell  stories  of  Canadians,  who  politely  received 
tracts  and  even  testaments,  lighting  their  pipes  with  the 
former  and  throwing  the  latter  into  the  fire — others  sell- 
ing them  for  a  few  coppers  if  they  could  get  them.  So 
you  see  I  can  hardly  bring  myself  to  ask  money  from 
them  for  providing  books  for  such  purposes," 


ELINOR   PRESTOK. 


229 


*•  But  there  are  our  schools,  my  dear  lady — think  of 
their  usefulness ! " 

"  Oh!  for  my  part  I  am  fully  convinced  of  the  Society's 
eniire  usefulness,  and  am  quite  willing  to  do  what  I  can 
myself  to  forward  its  views,  but  the  General  is  so  op- 
posed to  it,  and,  as  I  told  you,  most  of  our  guests  make 
merry  at  its  expense."  While  I  was  chuckling  over 
this  response,  I  heard  a  third  voice  in  the  drawing-room 
— it  was  that  of  the  General,  who,  like  myself,  had  been 
an  unwitting  listener,  and  now  stepped  in. 

"Certainly,  my  dear,  and  why  should  they  not? 
This  society  has  to  my  knowledge  been  several  years  in 
operation,  and  has  expended  vast  sums  of  money  on 
speculation.  Where  are  its  fruits?  is  Lower  Canada 
more  Protestant — less  Catholic  than  it  was  when  these 
gentlemen  started  their  wind-machine  1  ^  ^or  my  part, 
would  be  willing  to  affirm  that  they  have  never  sent  a 
single  soul  to  heaven " 

"  Oh  !  fie,  Henry,  fie !  " 

"  Fie  yourself,  Dorothy ! — I  hope  I  am  as  good  a  Prot- 
estant as  any  of  you,  but  I  can't  swallow  confounded 
sham  like  this.  You  heard  what  young  Delaval  told  us 
yesterday  evening  of  his  experience  among  the  Cana- 
dians." 

"  Certainly  I  did,  Henry,  but  there  is  no  use  repeating 
it  now.  The  carriage  is  waiting,^-excuse  me,  Mr.  Price ! 
— ^another  time  I  shall  be  happy  to  see  you " 

"  But,  my  dear  madam,  permit  me  to  explain  to  the 
General " 

"  I  too  must  beg  to  be  excused,  my  very  good  sir," 
20 


230 


ELtKOR   PRESTON. 


ill; 

I 


« 


said  the  bluff  old  soldier ;  "  my  time  is  too  precious  for 
long-winded  harangues  on  a  subject  that  never  could  in- 
terest me.  You  will  oblige  me  by  taking  yourself  off. 
Wilson !  "  to  the  servant  who  answered  his  ring,  "  show 
this  reverend  gentleman  to  the  door  !  " 

I  suppose  Mr.  Price  found  it  his  wisest  course  to  do 
as  he  was  bid,  for  I  heard  his  voice  no  more ;  and  afler 
a  hearty  laugh  from  the  Brigadier,  in  answer  to  a  re- 
monstrance from  his  wife,  the  two  vacated  the  apart- 
ment, and  I  was  left  to  laugh  at  my  leisure  over  the  dis- 
com.fiture  of  the  unlucky  deputation  from  the  F.  C.  M. 
Society. 

Being  anxious  to  learn  all  I  could  of  the  people  among 
whom  my  lot  was  likely  to  be  cast,  I  took  the  liberty 
of  asking  the  General  what  had  been  the  nature  of  Dela- 
vaPs  experience  among  the  Canadians.  Now  Delaval 
was  a  gentlemanly  young  Englishman — a  frequent  visi- 
tor at  the  General's — who  had  been  sent  out  on  an  offi- 
cial Survey  by  the  provincial  government. 

"  Well !  "  said  the  General,  "  you  must  know  that 
Deleval  is — or  rather  was — a  bit  of  an  evangelical- 
much  given  to  polemical  discussions — I'm  not  sure  in- 
deed but  he  used  to  figure  occasionally  in  Exeter  Hall  ;— 
however  that  may  be,  when  he  came  to  Canada,  as  he 
says  himself  in  his  solemn  way,  he  rejoiced  in  the  oppor- 
tunity of  giving  light  to  the  natives  in  these  dark  regions, 
and  provided  himself  accordingly  with  a  goodly  stock 
of  Bibles,  with  any  amount  of  savory  tracts  cooked  ex- 
pressly for  papist  digestion.  So  out  he  went  among  the 
habiianSf  doing  business  in  a  twofold  capacity,  but  it 


»«■' 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


231 


that 
leal— 
Ire  in- 
JU;- 
he 
Ippor- 
;ions, 
Istock 
Id  ex- 
the 
lut  it 


iecms  when  he  came  to  grips — religic  as  grips,  of  coursa 
— with  Monsieui  Jean  Baptiste,  he  got  the  worst  of  tha 
battle — he  found,  to  his  great  surprise,  th.it  Jean  knew 
as  much  of  religion  as  he  did  himself — yes !  and  more 
too,  I  fancy,  for  he  says  the  very  children  were  inti 
mately  acquainted  with  the  great  truths  of  Christianity, 
and,  in  fact,  knew  them  more  thoroughly  than  he  did. 
After  meeting  a  few  rebuffs  of  this  kind,  his  zeal  began 
to  relax,  and  his  evangelical  fervor  cooled  down  wonder- 
fully. To  make  a  long  story  short,  as  you  Irish  say,  he 
speedily  cleared  his  trunks  of  the  pious  rubbish  collected 
for  the  conversion  of  Canada — rather  detrimental  it  was 
to  his  fine  English  clothes,  having  been  the  cause  of  sun- 
dry creases  in  his  glossy  broadcloths.  How  he  disposed 
of  the  lumber  is  more  than  I  know  ;  but  my  own  pri- 
vate opinion  is  that  the  tracts  went  for  lighting  cigars, 
and  King  James's  Bible — God  knows  how !  That  was 
a  dead  loss  to  the  ranters,  for  Delaval  has  opened  not 
his  mouth  in  their  favor  from  thaj;  day  to  this.  In  fact, 
he's  death  on  the  F.  C.  M.'s,  and  all  that  crew.  I  think 
his  story  had  quite  an  effect  on  my  good  wife — I  hope 
so,  at  least." 

The  General  seldom  laughed,  but  he  chuckled  gleefully 
at  the  denouement  of  his  own  story,  as,  taking  up  a  news- 
paper, he  retired  to  the  garden. 

It  was  just  about  this  time.^at  I  had  another  trial  to 
undergo,  George's  regiment  was  removed  to  the  West 
Indies,  and,  independent  of  my  engagement  at  Lady 

^'s,  I  would  have  felt  extremely  awkward  to  travel 

with  the  regiment — a  sort  of  camp-follower.      George 


\ 


k 


232 


ELINOR   FRESTOir. 


^'1 


li 


II 


had  precisely  the  same  idea,  and  he  was  also  unwilling 
that  I  should  expose  myself  without  necessity  to  the  dan- 
gers of  a  tropical  climate :  "  Stay  where  you  are,  my 
beloved  sister,"  said  he ;  "  stay,  in  God's  name !  better 
the  keen  steady  frosts  of  Canada  than  the  enervating 
warmth  and  the  deadly  miasma  of  those  Indian  climes 
You  are  now  in  a  fair  way  of  doing  well :  you  have  a 
good  home,  and  friends  powerful  to  assist  you.  Stay, 
then,  where  you  are  ;  it  would  be  madness,  or  little  less, 
to  follow  my  poor  fortunes.  I  go  to  the  land  of  the  wild 
tornado,  where  the  fetid  marshes  generate  pestilence 
from  year  to  year ; — should  I  sink,  as  many  Europeans 
do,  beneath  the  fiery  darts  of  that  tropical  sun,  your  lot 
will  be  a  lonely  one.  Promise  me  that  if  the  worst 
should  happen,  you  will  go  home  to  Ireland  and  tell  Al- 
fred, if  you  ever  see  him,  that  George  was — not  a  bad 
brother,  and  did  not  forget  his  promise " 

I  interrupted  him  somewhat  sharply:  "I  will  give  you 
no  promise  on  such  a  probability  ;  I  hope  in  the  mercy 
of  God  that  we  shall  soon  meet  again.  Embitter  not  our 
parting,  I  beseech  you,  by  such  gloomy  forebodings  ;  it 
is  bitter  enough,  God  knows !  " 

"  Weil !  well !  we'll  say  no  more  about  it ;  let  us  talk 
of  something  else." 

George  dined  at  the  General's  that  last  day,  and  the 
kind-hearted  Brigadier,*who  had  all  along  taken  an  inter- 
est in  him,  took  occasion,  before  he  left  Montreal,  to  re- 
commend him  for  early  promotion.  One  solitary  com- 
fort I  had  in  this  sad  separation,  and  that  was  that 
George  prepared  himaslf  like  a  Christian  for  his  voyage. 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


233 


my 


d  the 
inter- 
to  re- 
com- 
that 
>yage. 


That  thought  alone  has  given  light  and  peace  to  a  sc»ul 
that  would  otherwise  be  dark  and  troubled. 

It  was  a  gay  sight,  and  yet  a  sad  one,  to  see  the  long 

column  of  the th  moving  along  the  wharf,  and  over 

the  gangway  to  the  deck  of  the  Quebec  steamer,  their 
band  playing  the  well-known  parting  air,  "The  Girl  1 
Left  Behind  Me  " — one  of  those  wonderful  Irish  airs 
wherein  gayety  and  sadness  are  so  mingled  that  you  can- 
not tell  which  affects  you  most.  Who  has  ever  heard 
that  air  under  such  circumstances  without  emotion?  how, 
then,  must  I  have  felt  its  power  when  the  brother  I  so 
loved,  my  last  earthly  stay,  was  moving  away  at  the 
moment — marching  to  those  very  sounds — leaving  me 
perhaps  forever!  Many  a  pleasant  acquaintance  was 
snapped  asunder  at  the  same  time,  and  I  was  left  alone 
in  a  land  of  strangers.  A  mist  came  before  my  eyes  as 
I  caught  George's  farewell  look,  and  the  last  wave  of  his 
hand  was  lost  to  me  ;  it  was  seen  and  answered  by  the 

General,  who  with  Lady  and  one  or  two  other 

friends  had  accompanied  me  to  the  wharf  to  see  the  regi- 
ment off. 

Left  thus  to  myself,  and  with  a  heart  crushed  and 
bleeding,  I  could  no  longer  enjoy,  as  1  had  done,  the  fash- 
ionable bustle  of  Lady 's  mansion.     The  churches 

were  my  sole  refuge,  and,  as  much  of  my  spare  time  was 
spent  within  their  hallowed  walls,  I  saw  many  things 
that  passed  unnoticed  bef  )re.  It  is  not  without  justice 
that  Montreal  is  called  the  Rome,  of  America,  for  surely 
it  is  a  city  of  Catholic  associations,  of  Catholic  institu- 
tions, and,  to  a  great  extent,  of  Catholic  morals.     From 


234 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


the  great  church  of  Notre  Dame  and  our  own  St.  Pat- 
rick's, which  occupies  one  of  the  noblest  sites  in  the 
neighhorhood,  down  to  the  little  chapel  of  Our  Lady  of 
the  Nativity,  situate  at  one  of  the  extremities  of  the  city 
in  a  sweet  secluded  spot  not  far  from  the  river  edge, 
there  are  churches  of  every  size,  many  of  them  remark- 
ably fine  specimens  of  art.  No  city  that  I  know  of  has 
so  many  religious  confraternitits  as  Montreal,  and  on 
the  Sunday  within  the  octave  of  Corpus  Christi,  when 
the  entire  Catholic  population  is  formed  into  a  proces- 
sion in  honor  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  it  is  consoling, 
and  at  the  same  time  surprising,  to  see  the  vast  number 
of  persons  of  both  sexes  who  belong  to  these  associa- 
tions. 

Not  to  speak  of  the  different  confraternities  of  Our 
Lady  established  in  the  various  churches,  there  are  So- 
cieties in  honor  of  many  of  the  Saints.  First  and  great- 
est of  these  are  the  St.  John  the  Baptist  Society — the  na- 
tional association  of  the  French  Canadians — and  the  St. 
Patrick's  Society,  comprising  a  large  number  of  the 
Irishmen  of  the  city : — then  there  are  the  St.  Michael's,  the 
St.  Joseph's  Society,  the  Society  of  Za  Bonne  Mort^  and 
the  Society  of  the  Holy  Family. 

I  happened  to  be  present,  in  the  parish  church,  one 
morning  at  an  early  Mass.  It  was  the  last  Sunday  of 
March,  when  the  entire  Society  of  St  Joseph,  chiefly 
young  men  and  boys,  sang  during  the  service,  with  much 
taste  and  feeling,  several  popular  hymns  appropriate  to 
the  occasion ;  and  never  did  I  hear  music  with  greater 
pleasure  than  those  sacred  melodies  sung  with  such  sim- 


3t.  Pat 
in  the 
ady  of 
ihe  city 
r  edge, 
emark- 
of  has 
md  on 
when 
Droces- 
soling, 
umber 
ssocia- 

f  Our 
ire  So- 
great- 
;he  na- 
:he  St. 
)f  the 
I's,  the 
•/,  and 

h,  one 
ay  of 
ihiefly 
much 
ite  to 
'eater 
i  sim- 


NOTRE    DAME,    MONTREAL. 

(See  page  284.) 


m 


ELINOR  PRESTON. 


237 


pie  fervor,  and  forming  so  full  a  choir.  What  was  still 
more  touching  was  to  see  all  the  young  men,  from  the 
oldest  to  the -youngest,  approaching  the  Holy  Commun- 
ion, and  that  with  the  most  edifying  piety  and  recollec- 
tion. Happy  are  they  who  thus  remember  their  Crea- 
tor in  the  days  of  their  youth.  Happy,  too,  the  city, 
whose  young  men  enroll  themselves  under  the  banners 
of  the  Saints,  for,  faithful  as  they  must  be  to  their  relig- 
ious duties,  they  cannot  fail  to  be  good  and  useful  citi- 
zens. 

On  another  occasion,  when  I  went  to  Vespers  in  the 
parish  church,  1  was  surprised  to  see  a  large  number  of 
the  congregation  provided  with  long  wax  tapers.  While 
thiiiking  what  this  might  mean,  the  Vespers  were  draw- 
ing to  a  close  and  persons  began  to  move  through  the 
aisles,  lighting  the  tapers  in  the  different  pews.  In  a 
very  few  minutes  the  vast  church  with  its  two  tiers  of 
galleries  was  twinkling  all  over  with  star-like  lights, 
which  wrre  kept  burning  during  the  Benediction.  The 
spectacle  was  unique  and  very  beautiful,  but  it  puzzled 
me  no  little  at  the  time.  I  afterwards  found  that  it 
was  the  assembly  of  Za  Bonne  Mort,  (The  Happy  Death,) 
which  is  held  on  the  third  Sunday  of  every  month.  Such 
scenes  are  only  to  be  met  with  in  Catholic  cities,  and 
they  make  us  forget  that  we  live  in  an  age  of  reason,  not 
of  faith. 

Then  to  see  the  clergy,  secular  and  regular,  walking 
abroad  in  the  habits  of  their  different  orders — the  Sulpi- 
cian  and  the  Jesuit,  the  Oblationist  and  the  Christian 
Brother — the  Congregation  nun  and  the  Grey  nun,  and 


238 


ELINOR  PUESTOlf. 


the  Sister  of  Charity,  appearing  here  and  there  in  the 
moving  diorama  of  the  crowded  streets.  All  this  was, 
of  course,  new  to  nne,  and  it  had  an  indescribable  charm 
for  one  who,  though  brought  up  a  Catholic  and  among 
Catholics,  had  never  seen  such  public  manifestations  of 
Catholicity.  I  began  to  say  to  myself,  like  the  Apostle 
on  Thabor:  "It  is  good  to  be  here,"  and  I  resolved 
henceforward  to  consider  this  favored  country  my  home. 
**  What  though  I  be  alone  and  desolate,"  said  I  to  my- 
self; "  \  will  endeavor  to  forget  my  sorrows  in  the  peace* 
ful  joys  of  religion." 

But  still  I  could  not  help  feeling  the  want  of  Catholic 

tociety.     Lady was  as  kind  as  ever,  so  was  the 

General  when  at  home,  but  that  was  neither  often  nor 
long  at  a  time  ;  there  were  a  few  agreeable  persons  of 
both  sexes  among  their  visitors,  but  not  one  of  my  own 
creed  or  country,  not  one  with  whom  I  could  speak  of 
home  or  of  religion — at  least,  my  religion.  My  spirits 
sank  from  day  to  day,  and  I  began  to  sigh  for  some 
quiet  spot  where  I  might  be  free  from  the  ceaseless 
clamor  of  fashionable  society.  There  was  one  thing  that 
tended  not  a  little  to  my  increasing  dejection.     It  so 

happened  that  Lady *s  house  was  situated  in  St. 

Antoine  street,  a  fashionable  suburb,  consisting  for  the 
most  part  of  handsome  and  elegant  private  dwellings  ; 
a  very  pleasant  locality  it  was, — but  in  it  was  situated 
the  Catholic  Cemetery  for  the  whole  parish,  and  many 
a  sight  of  sorrow  daily  passed  under  our  windows  that 
persons  in  other  quarters  of  the  city  did  not  see.  Now 
the  two  great  component  parts  of  the  Catholic  popular 


ILINOR   PRESTON. 


230 


the 


t8 


tion  of  Montreal  are  the  French  Canadians  ai^d  the  Irish, 
the  latter  swelled  from  year  to  year  by  the  arrival  of 

new  emigrants.     I  had  not  been  long  in  Lady 's 

when  I  began  to  notice  the  funerals  as  they  passed,  and 
I  had  no  great  difficulty  in  distinguishing  to  which  of  the 
two  races  they  belonged.  Funerals  in  general  were 
pretty  well  attended,  but  occasionally  they  furnished 
pictures  of  such  utter  loneliness  that  it  made  my  heart 
ache  to  see  them,  especially  as  I  all  along  noticed  that 
the  loneliest  and  most  affecting  were  of  the  emigrant 
class — mournful  fragments  of  what  has  been  called  the 
Irish  Exodus.  Time  after  time  I  have  sat  in  the  shade 
of  the  damask  curtains,  when  some  light-hearted  visitors 

were  entertaining  Lady with  their  frivolous  chat, 

and  watched  through  blinding  tears  these  gloomy  ep- 
isodes in  the  great  epic  of  human  life — scenes  which 
others  saw  not,  or  heeded  not  if  they  saw.  At  one  time 
it  was  a  solitary  figure — a  worn-looking  man  in  a  cos- 
tume too  familiar  to  my  eyes — following  to  her  foreign 
grave  the  wife  of  his  youth — the  partner  of  his  life. 
Again,  I  have  seen  the  v/ife,  with  one  or  more  children, 
walking  close  behind  the  poor-hearse,  perhaps  the  hood 
of  a  once  decent  blue  cloak  drawn  up  over  the  woman's 
head,  as  it  were  to  screen  her  anguish  from  the  observa- 
tion of  the  cold,  mocking  stranger.  Once  or  twice  I  saw 
a  little  family  of  emigrant  children  following  the  corpse 
of  a  father  or  mother — the  elder  leading  the  younger  by 
the  hand,  and  occasionally  checking  by  a  reproachful 
look  or  gesture  the  childish  curiosity  of  the  little  ones, 
who,  happily  unconscious  of  their  desolate  state,  would 


240 


ELINOR   PRESTOir. 


fain  have  a  look  at  the  fine  houses  on  either  hand.  All 
this  was  sorrowful  enough ;  but  there  was  yet  another 
stase  of  loneliness  in  these  funeral  scenes — it  was  that 
of  utter  and  most  complete  desertion.  Many  and  many 
a  corpse  I  saw  borne  to  the  grave  during  my  stay  in  that 
neighborhood,  without  one  human  being  to  shed  a  tear 
or  breathe  a  prayer  over  the  departed.  Yet  this,  after 
all,  though  deeply  touching,  was  not  so  painful  as  the 
sight  of  the  bereaved  husband  or  wife,  or  the  orphan 
children  left  friendless  and  alone  on  a  foreign  shore 
where  they  knew  no  one,  or  no  one  knew  them.  How 
often  did  the  sympathetic  sigh  escape  me,  as  I  wished 
from  my  inmost  heart  that  they  had  never  left  their  own 
green  isle,  where,  even  if  poverty  had  been  their  lot, 
they  would  at  least  have  had  friends^  that  choicest  bless- 
ing that  heaven  can  bestow  on  mortals !  At  home,  they 
would  never  be  altogether  destitute — abroad,  they  oft;en, 
very  often,  are. 

About  a  month  after  George's  departure  I  received  a 
letter  from  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  giving  me  all  the  news ; 
among  other  items  were  the  following  :  "  Who  do  you 
think  I  met  the  other  day  in  Grafton  street  ? — now  I 
know  you'll  be  thinking  *  what  took  the  old  curmudgeon 
there — gloves  and  ribbons,  eh  ? ' — no,  it  wasn't,  but,  as 
]  was  saying,  who  should  I  meet  but  Denis  John — our 
old  Killarney  hidalgo^  looking  as  like  a  first-class  grandee 
as  ever  you  saw  him.  Maybe  I  wasn't  glad  to  see  him,  and 
to  do  him  justice,  he  was  just  as  glad  to  see  me.  To  be  sure 
he  asked  very  kindly  for  you  all,  and  was  sorry  to  hear  that 
you  had  left  our  little  island — he's  no  friend  of  emigration. 


ELINOR    FRESTOir. 


241 


&ws; 


reon 
b,  as 
)ur 
idee 
land 
mre 
that 
lion, 


I  sec  plainly.  And  to  be  sure  I  asked  very  kindly  for  Miss 
Ellen.     *  She's  not  Miss  Ellen  now/  says  he,  with  his 
princely  smile,  *  she  has  become  a  matron  since  you  saw 
her  ;  she  was  married  last  autumn  to  young  O'Donovan, 
whom  you  may  remember  to  have  seen  at  Killarney.'  Of 
course  I  did  remember  him — a  dashing  young  fellow  he 
was  too — but  it  never  came  into  my  head  that  he  and  Miss 
Ellen  were  pulling  a  cord.     Neither  they  were  at  that 
time,  the  Don  said,  but  the  acquaintance  made  in  thd 
Lake  Hotel  came  to  that  in  a  short  time,  and  though  the 
marriage  in  which  it  ended   left   him   lonely,  yet  he 
thought  Ellen  could  not  have  done  better,  either  on  the 
score  of  blood  or  fortune.     I  was  glad  to  hear  this,  and 
insisted  on  the  Don's  dining  with  me  that  day,  that  we 
might  drink  the  health  of  the  joung  couple  in  a  bottle 
of  Champagne  that  was  innocent  of  the  contamination 
of  cider — sparkling,  and  bright,  and  fresh,  like  the  fair 
daughter  of   the  MacCarthys.      The  stately  old   man 
grew  young  again  as  we  drained  the  generous  cup  to  his 
favorite's  health,  and  the  ice  once  broken  his  thoughts 
flowed  free  as  a  mountain  rivulet,  and  he  made  quite  a 
little  speech  about  you, — wilful  little  runaway  that  you 
are ! — and  you  may  be  sure,  we  poured  another  libation, 
as  Byron  says,  to  your  health  and  happiness.     After 
dinner  we  adjourned  to  Dillon's,  and  had  a  right  merry 
evening  of  it,  although  our  mirth  was  clouded,  at  times, 
by  the  *  memory  of  the  dead '  and  those  from  whom  seas 
divide  us.     Bless  my  heart,  Elinor !  if  I  don't  stop,  I'll 
grow  quite  soft  and  sentimental.     I  have  one  thing  to 
say,  however,  before  I  leave  off.     How  are  you  getting 
21 


■» 


242 


ELINOR   PRKSTON. 


on? — I  mean  yourself,  for  I  heard  from  George  not 
many  weeks  ago.     He's  quite  in  love  with  his  profes- 
sion.    So  far,  so  good.     He  tells  me  you're  in  a  capital 
situation,  but  I  want  to  hear  from  under  your  own  hand 
how  you  are  settled.     It  seems  you  have  swaddlers  even 
in  Canada — wonder  the  frost  don't  kill  all  such  white- 
livered  animals  out  there.     Give  me  some  account  of 
them  when  you  write — manners,  habits,  general  appear- 
ance, and  so  forth.     1  want  to  compare  your  ffenus  with 
ours,  though  I  suppose  they  are  all  the  same  species. 
The  Dillons  are  about  the  same  as  usual.     Your  god- 
child is  very  fat,  and  quite  a  precocious  little  woman — 
they'll  make  her  out  a  prodigy,  depend  upon  it.     On 
occasion  of  my  last  visit,  the  old  madam  communicated 
to  me  the  gratifying  intelligence  that  *baby  had  cut  her 
eye-teeth,'  and,  as  though  that  was  not  sufficient  to  com- 
plete my  happiness,  she  further  added,  '  and,  only  think, 
Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,  she  can  walk  alone,  quite  across  the 
nursery.'     Whether  it  was  this  accumulation  of  good 
news,  or  the  constituent  part  of  the  bill  of  fare  being 
some  degrees   better  than  usual — and  you  know  the 
Dillon  dinners  are  famous — I  certainly  dined  heartily, 
and  felt  exceedingly  comfortable  all  the  evening.     .     . 
But  now,  Elinor,  to  come  back  to  our  affairs — are  you 
well  settled — are  you  contented,  or  are  you  not?    If 
not,  don't  despair ;  try  another  situation,  and  if  that 
doesn't  do,  come  back  to  the  maternal  arms  of  Mhe 
world's  Cushla  machree.'     You  know 

^ffer  gates  open  wide  to  the  poor  and  the  stranger^' 


ELINOR   PRESTOir. 


243 


but  you  are  neither,  Nell ! — friends,  and  perhaps  e\  en  a 
trifle  of  fortune,  await  you.  If  Canadian  skies  are  gloomy 
for  you,  come  back  to  your  home,  for  you  have  one 
here :  so  long  as  the  big  brass  plate  on  the  door  in 
Dominick  street  bears  the  name  of  Terence  O'Shaugh- 
nessy  you're  all  right,  as  I  told  you  once  before.  People 
are  advising  me  lately  t<)  retire  on  account  of  a  certain 
asthmatic  affection  which  annoys  me  now  and  then  ;  but 
I  won't  retire — that's  the  fact, — as  long  as  I'm  able  to 
crawl  into  Court,  I'll  still  be  T.  O.  S.,  Attorney-at-Law, 
for  if  I  weren't  that  I'd  be  nothing,  and  the  sexton  might 
prepare  me  a  new  house  as  soon  as  he  pleased.  God 
bless  you,  Elinor !  God  bless  you — if  I  never  see  you 
again,  I  love  you  as  a  daughter — you  needn't  laugh  now 
— that's  just  the  plain  truth.  I  never  was  ass  enough  to 
think  of  you  in  any  other  way,  though  Maria,  in  her 
wild  days,  used  to  quiz  me  on  the  subject.  But  those 
days  are  all  past :  I  think  Maria  has  never  been  so  gay 
since  you  lefl,  at  least  she  seldom  indulges  in  merriment. 
Yet  believe  me  it  isn't  Arthur's  fault — 


\e  you 
?    If 
that 
'the 


*  For  she  hath  been  a  happy  wife — the  lover  of  her  youth 
May  proudly  claim  the  smile  that  pays  the  trial  of  his  truth : 
A  sense  of  slight — of  loneliness  hath  never  banisb'd  sleep. 
Her  life  hath  been  a  cloudless  one — then  wherefore  doth  she  weep  f 

Mind,  /  didn't  say  she  wept — Haynes  Bayley  might 
have  had  her  in  bis  eye  for  all  I  know,  when  he  wrote 
those  lines ;  but  if  Maria  doesn't  weep,  she  certainly  looks 
sober — old  madam's  doings,  I'll  be  bound.  The  old 
hare !  if  it  was  she  that  carried  off  or  squeezed  out 


244 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


Maria's  piquant  drollery,  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
leave  her  standing  for  a  night  in  solitary  grandeur  a-top 
of  Nelson's  pillar.     But,  nothing  of  this,  mind !  when 
you  write  to  Maria.     Farewell !  once  more — by-the- 
bye!  give  my  compliments  to  that  old  Brigadier  of 
whom  George  speaks ;  tell  him  if  ever  he  comes  to 
Dublin,  to  be  sure  and  pay  old  Shaugh  a  visit — if  I'm  a 
living  man,  he'll  be  sure  of  as  good  a  dinner,  wine  in- 
cluded— as  he'll  get  from  this  to  himself — I've  a  notion 
that  hearts  are  trump  when  he  turns  up.     As  for  his  * 
rib,  I  fancy  she's  a  spare  one :  tell  her  if  she'd  only  leave 
off  her  swaddling  propensities,  she'd  be  welcome  as  the 
flowers  in  May,  for  I  think,  from  what  George  says,  she 
has  treated  you  rather  kindly.     There  now — ^1  protest 
I'll  not  write  another  word — ^yes,  I  will — Ally,  my  old 
housekeeper,  sends  her  love  and  best  respects  to  you 
and  Master  George.    She  bids  me  tell  you  that  she  says 
the  beads  for  you  once  a  week.     Let  us  know  did  you 
ever  see  or  hear  anything  of  Larry  and  his  yoke-fellow. 
Adieu." 

I  gave  my  old  friend's  characteristic  invitation  ver- 
batim to  the  General,  who  received  it  very  kindly : 
"  Upon  my  honor,  Miss  Preston,  if  ever  I  do  visit  the 
Emerald  Isle,  which  is  not  at  all  beyond  the  range  of 
probability,  I'll  certainly  avail  myself  of  your  friend's 
very  kind  invitation.  I've  an  idea  that  he's  a  brick — 
pardon  the  vulgarism,  but  I  can  find  no  word  better 
adapted  to  convey  my  conception  of  old  Shaugh,  as  he 
pleasantly  calls  himself! " 

I  then  ventured  to  repeat  that  portion  of  the  message 


BLINOR    PRESTON. 


245 


which  related  to  her  ladyship,  at  which  the  General 
laughed  heartily.  "  Well,  really  now,  that's  good- 
capital,  I  should  say.  Swaddling  propensities  ! — that's 
just  the  word,  but  it  wouldn't  do  to  tell  her  so,  for  she'd 
never  forgive  jolly  old  Shaugh — never,  in  the  world.  / 
know  the  canters — I  do— charity  is  always  on  their  lips, 
but  confoundedly  seldom  in  their  hearts — they're  the 
bitterest  crew  living.  But,  I  say.  Miss  Preston !  have 
you  heard  from  George  lately  1  He'll  be  bringing  you 
a  Creole  sister  some  of  these  days.  He'll  captivate  an 
heiress,  or  I'm  much  mistaken.  What  would  you  think 
of  that  1 " 

"  I  have  not  the  slightest  objection,  sir,  provided  he 
secures  his  own  happiness.  I'm  pretty  certain  that 
George  will  never  marry  for  money  alone  ! " 

"  I  should  hope  not,  indeed ! "  said  the  General,  very 
eiously  ;  "marry  for  love  and  work  for  riches,  as  the 
old  proverb  has  it ;  that's  what  we  did !  eh,  Dorothy  1 " 
to  Lady  D — — ,  who  just  then  entered. 

"  What  did  you  say,  Henry  1 " 

I  say  we  married  for  love,  not  for  riches,  my  dear," 
raising  his  voice ;  then  to  me  in  an  under  tone,  "  That's 
true  enough.  Miss  Preston !  and  notwithstanding  her 
swaddling  propensities,  as  Shaugh  says,  I  have  never  had 
cause  to  repent  my  choice  :  even  the  canters  haven't  been 
able  to  spoil  Dorothy."  I  loved  the  good  old  man  at 
the  moment  for  the  affectionate  pride  with  which  his  eye 
rested  on  his  aged  wife.  She  had  not  caught  the  full 
meaning  of  his  words,  but  she  well  understood  the  accom 
panying  glance,  and  to  it  she  replied :  "  Yes,  to  be  suro^ 


246 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


! 


we  n^arried  for  love ;  and  ¥m  proud  to  say  our  marriage 
has  been  a  happy  one,  excepting  the  loss  of  our  children ; 
but  love  supported  us  even  through  that.  I'd  be  dead 
and  in  my  grave  years  ago,  Miss  Preston,  my  dear !  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  hard-featured,  grey-headed  old  man. 
He's  not  so  hard  as  he  looks,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Upon  my  word,  Dorothy,  you're  very  complimen- 
tary as  regards  my  outward  man.  But  never  mind,  I 
won't  retort.  We've  got  an  invitation  to  Ireland,  my 
dear ! " 

"  An  invitation  to  where  1 " 

"  To  Ireland  !  "  He  then  told  as  much  as  he  chose 
of  what  O'Shaughnessy  had  said.  She  seemed  rather 
pleased,  and  smiled  very  graciously. 

"  Well !  now,  do  you  know,  I  should  like  very  much 
to  see  something  of  Ireland,  if  I  ever  went  home  to  Eng- 
land. I  have  a  great  desire  to  visit  the  Lord's  vineyard 
at — what's  that  place  in  Connaught " 

"  Achill !  "  I  suggested,  in  my  loudest  voice. 

"  Exactly  !  I  have  heard  so  much  of  the  wonderful 
regeneration  effected  in  that  neighborhood  by  the  word 
of  God,  that  I  should  like  of  all  things  to  see  it.  It  ap- 
pears there  have  been  thousands  converted  from  Ro- 
manism in  that  locality  alone." 

"  1  am  sorry  to  contradict  your  ladyship,"  I  said,  "  but 
it  is  my  duty  to  do  it  notwithstanding.  The  accounts 
which  you  have  seen  are  those  returned  to  their  patrons 
and  employers  by  the  agents  of  the  Church  Missionary 
Society.  In  justice  to  the  poor  people  whose  faith  they 
were  commissioned  to  buy  up,  I  must  candidly  inform 


/ 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


247 


but 
I  lints 
troll  s 
par/ 
Ithey 
form 


you  that  their  statements  are  wholly  unfounded.  Not 
/^'  only  have  we  the  testimony  of  the  Catholic  hierarchy  and 
/  priesthood  to  that  effect,  but  even  that  of  Protestant 

visitors  who  penetrated  to  those  remote  regions  for  the 
express  purpose  of  investigating  the  matter.  It  is  lat- 
terly pretty  generally  understood  that  what  your  lady- 
ship calls  the  wonderful  regeneration  of  the  Achill  isl- 
anders is  a  pure  fiction." 

"  So  the  golden  bullets  of  Exeter  Hall  have  not  an- 
nihilated Popery  after  all,"  observed  Sir  Henry,  with 
his  dry,  inward  laugh ;  "  what  a  tough  hide  that  mon- 
ster must  have — excuse  me,  Miss  Preston!  I  do  but 
borrow  the  language  of  the  conventicle."  * 

"Nonsense,  Elinor,"  screamed  her  ladyship,  "there  is 
no  sort  of  use  in  denying  the  fact  that  the  gospel  is 
making  rapid  strides  in  Ireland." 

"I  do  not  mean  to  deny  it,  Lady .      The  gospel 

is  making,  and  has  made  such  rapid  strides  that  it  rules 
and  animates  the  entire  country.  In  fact,  it  has  done  so 
for  over  fourteen  centuries.  St.  Patrick  himself  gave 
the  Gospel  to  the  people ;  and  if  they  haven't  taken  good 
care  of  it  since,  no  people  ever  did." 

The  Brigadier  laughed  at  this  unexpected  turn,  but 
Lady waxed  somewhat  angry. 

"  Pshaw,  Elinor,  I  don't  mean  that  form  of  Christian- 
ity which  has  hitherto  prevailed  in  Ireland — it  is  next 
to  none." 

I  acknowledged  the  compliment  by  a  bow,  and  was 
preparing  my  verbal  thanks,  when  a  loud  ring  of  the 
<1cor-bell  echoed  through  the  house,  and  immediately  a 


248 


XLINOR   PRESTON. 


servant  entered  with  a  handful  of  letters.  This  exciting 
incident  sent  the  conversion  of  Ireland  to  Jericho,  or 
any  other  remote  station,  for  the  time  being ;  and  it  so 
happened  that  the  subject  wa<  never  again  brought  up 
for  discussion  during  my  remaining  stay  in  that  house. 

My  share  of  the  package  was  a  letter  from  George, 
written  in  very  good  spirits,  and  one  from  Rebecca 
Wortley,  announcing  her  approaching  marriage.  This 
was  all  very  satisfactory,  and  furnished  me  with  a  fresh 
stock  of  cheerfulness,  which  Lady  —  persisted  in  as- 
cribing to  certain  "  good  news  from  home "  of  a  par 
ticular  nature,  as  she  emphatically  said.^  In  fact,  she 
went  so  far  as  to  hint  her  conviction  that  I  had  still  a 
tender  connection  with  my  native  land.  Unfortunately 
she  did  not  confine  this  notion  to  her  own  mind,  but  was 
pleased  to  communicate  it  rather  freely  to  her  visitors, 
to  the  great  discouragement  of  two  individuals  who  had 
been  saying  soft  things  to  me  for  some  time  past,  when 
opportunity  served.  One  of  these  was  an  antiquated 
beau  who,  if  he  had  not  "walk'd  the  world  for  fourscore 
year,"  had  at  least  been  half  a  century  on  its  stage  in 
one  capacity  and  another.      Like   the  Nabob  in  the 

song, 

"  His  guineas  were  yellow,  but  so  were  his  cheeks/' 

and  there  was,  moreover,  a  look  of  jaundiced  melan- 
choly about  him  that  was  anything  but  prepossessin^qr. 
The  other  admirer  was  a  dandified  young  gentlem^  , 
some  two  or  three  years  younger  than  myself — one  of 
those  creatures  who  haunt  ball-rooms  and  other  such 
places  of  public  amusement,  d  ^ing  the  amiable  to  ladies 


ELINOR   PBESTON. 


249 


lelan- 

W  . 
of 
Isuch 
Idles 


in  general  and  to  rank  and  what  they  consider  fashion  in 
particular.  This  rare  specimen  sported  quite  a  stylish 
imperial^  dressed  in  the  most  approved  style,,  and  af- 
fected a  most  supercilious  tone  towards  those  whom  he 
judged  below  the  mark.  However  it  happened  that 
Lady 's  humble  companion  found  favor  in  such  fas- 
tidious eyes,  I  am  not  prepared  to  say ;  but  such  was  ac- 
tually the  case,  and  notwithstanding  the  extra  coldness 
with  which  I  made  it  a  poin*^  •  treat  him,  he  still  hung 
on,  doing  everything  he  could  to  make  himself  agree- 
able, and  producing  an  effect  diametrically  opposite  to 
what  he  intended.  Neither  of  these  two  gentlemen  had 
ever  "  declared  his  intentions  " — as  speculating  mammas 
are  wont  to  say — so  thit  I  had  no  chance  of  ridding  my- 
self of  their  very  disagreeable  attentions.     But  all  at 

once  came  Lady 's  broad  inuendo — I  really  believe 

she  meant  it  for  the  very  purpose — and  quick  as  light- 
ning dropped  off  my  junior  admirer!  The  senior  held 
out  a  week  or  so  longer,  and  might  actually  have  ven- 
tured to  inquire  whether  the  Irish  affair  was  or  was  not 
an  obstacle,  but  luckily  for  me  somebody  told  him  that 
I  had  said  he  wore  a  wig  ;  it  was  a  fur  fabrication,  to  be 
sure,  but  it  served  me  well,  for  afler  that  my  old  beau 
could  never  look  me  straight  in  the  face.  His  sweet- 
ness, as  regarded  me,  was  thenceforward  turned  into  gall 
and  wormwood. 

Lady ,  just  as  I  supposed,  called  on  me  for  a 

large  measure  of  gratitude,  which  I  certainly  w-as  quite 
willing  to  render,  notwithstanding  the  circuitous  route 
by  which  she  had  effected  my  deliverance.     "  I  don't 


250 


SLINOR   PRESTON. 


know,"  said  she  "  whether  there's  any  Ulysses  in  the 
case,  but  you  were  certainly  besieged  as  close  as  ever 
Penelope  was.  It  takes  me  to  make  a  clear  riddance." 
I,  of  course,  expressed  my  obligation,  and  with  a  smile 
which  I  felt  to  be  melancholy,  assured  her  ladyship  that 
she  had  no  secret  to  learn  with  regard  to  me. 


» 


¥ 


p 


XLINOR  PRESTOK. 


351 


CHAPTER   IX. 


BOUT  six  or  eight  weeks  after, 
when  the  winter  had  just  set  in,  and 
tl)||.t8treets  were  musical  all  day  long  with 
the  tinWing  of-the  **  merry  sleigh  bells,"  I 
receivecNinother  letter  from  George,  inform- 
ing me  that  his  regiment  was  under  orders 
for  Bengjd,  but  that  he  would,  if  possible, 
obtain  leave  of  absence  in  order  to  pay  me 
a  visit  before  he  left  the  western  hemisphere. 
He  also  hinted  that  he  had  formed  a  new 
and  tender  tie  in  Jamaica.  "  The  daughter 
of  a  wealthy  planter,"  said  he,  "  the  dearest  and  love- 
liest of  her  sex,  has  deigned  to  take  an  especial  interest  in 
my  welfare — hor  father,  who  is  of  Spanish  descent,  ap- 
pears as  though  he  would  have  no  objection  to  Elmira's 
choosing  an  Irish  Catholic  for  a  husband — in  fact,  I  have 
smoked  myself  into  his  good  graces,  as  I  sang  myself 
into  his  charming  daughter's — what  do  you  think  of  that, 
Elinor  1 — I  know  you  never  gave  me  credit  for  much 
vocal  talent,  but  you  see  tastes  are  diiTerent,  as  I  have 


352 


ELINOR    PRESTOir. 


i 


found — to  my  profit.  So  do  not  be  surprised,  should  1 
bring  a  sweet  Creole  bride  to  visit  you  and  Canada-— 
both  of  which  Elmira  longs  to  see — you  especially.  You 
will  love  her,  I  know,  and  she  will  love  you,  for  you 
can  appreciate  each  other.  Farewell,  then,  for  the  pres- 
ent, my  dearest  sister — when  we  meet  again  it  will  be 
in  joy — mingled  alas !  with  sorrow,  for  the  long  separa- 
tion that  is  to  follow.  I  will  write  to  you  again  when 
all  is  decided." 

While  I  was  looking  out  with  strangely  mingled  feel- 
ings for  the  promised  letter — it  came — it  was  on  Christ- 
mas Eve,  I  well  remember — it  was  directed  in  a  small 
feminine  hand,  and — bore  a  black  seal^,^  It  was  from 
the  Signora  Elmira  Mendez  letting  me  know  that  my 
brother  had  taken  a  violent  fever  If  few  days  after  writ- 
ing to  me,  and  was  carried  off  inside  of  a  fortnight. 
Few  and  short  were  the  words  of  this  mournful  letter — 
evidently  dictated  by  a  breaking  heart — the  only  refer- 
ence the  writer  made  to  herself  was  a  touching  admission 
that  she  had  loved  George  Preston  with  more  than  a 
sister's  love — "  though  1  know,"  she  added,  "  you  will 
hardly  believe  that  possible.  But  no  matter  which  of 
us  loved  him  most — he  loved  us  both — he  was  good, 
and  high-hearted,  and  generous,  and  God  has  taken  him 
from  us.  Thank  our  good  God  with  me,  dearest  Sig- 
nora, that  our  loved  is  not  lost — he  died  full  of  faith, 
hope,  and  charity,  fortified  with  all  the  helps  of  religion. 
He,  let  us  trust,  is  gone  to  a  better  world,  but  who  can 
console  you — who  can  console  me  ? — only  God  alone, 
and  our  common  Mother — to  their  tenderest  protection 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


253 


Lith, 
lion, 
lean 
>ne, 
on 


I  commend  you,  my  more  than  sister !  Need  I  tell  you 
'on  what  noble  brow  the  inclosed  curl  wj.s  wont  to  rcsf? 
Your  own  heart  will  tell  you.  Write  to  me,  I  beseech 
you,  as  soon  as  you  are  able !  Would  that  we  were 
together  to  lighten  each  other's  burden  ! " 

Thus  then  was  my  last  prop  taken  away.     For  some 
hours  after  the  receipt  of  that  letter,  I  was  so  stunned 

that  Lady ,  as  she  afterwards  told  me,  feared  my 

senses  were  gone  for  ever.  But  no — I  recovered  grad" 
ually  as  from  a  dream — recovered  to  the  full  conscious- 
ness of  my  loss.  Then  it  was  that  I  bitterly  repented 
my  leaving  Ireland,  and  in  the  first  paroxysm  of  my 
sorrow  I  determined  to  go  home  again.  "  Here  I  have 
no  one,"  thought  I,  "  to  mourn  with  me — I  will  go  home 
to  Emily  and  Alfred".  I  cannot  bear  this  loneliness  of 
sorrow ! " 

My  next  thought  was  one  of  real  consolation.  I  re- 
membered Emily's  words  :  "  You  have  a  host  of  friends 
in  heaven."  In  pursuance  of  this  happy  suggestion  I 
brought  my  sorrows  to  our  Lady's  feet  in  her  shrine  of 
Boris  SecourSy  a  quaint-looking  old  chapel  dating  from 
the  earliest  settlement  of  the  French  on  the  island  of 
Montreal.  There  in  the  silence  of  the  holy  house  I 
poured  out  my  soul  in  prayer  for  the  repose  of  the  be- 
loved dead,  and  that  I  might  receive  that  strength  and 
succor  of  which  I  stood  in  need,  I  invoked  Our  Lady  of 
Succor,  and  besought  her  powerful  assistance.  My 
prayer  was  heard — the  crushing  weight  was  suddenly 
removed  from  off  my  heart,  and  I  could  look  my  pros- 
pects in  the  face.  After  all  they  were  little  changed, 
22 


254 


ILI90R   FRBSTON. 


but  J  had  somehow  conceived  a  desire  for  change,  influ« 
enced  in  part  by  the  fearful  blow  which  had  made  me 
sick  of  foreign  climes,  and  stranger-friends,  if  one  may 
be  allowed  the  term. 

To  Ireland,  then,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  go,  no^ 
withstanding  the  urgent  entreaties  of  my  good,  well* 
meaning  patroness,  and  I  had  just  communicated  my 
intention  to  the  young  Signora  Mendez,  when  a  letter.^ 
arrived  from  Mrs.  Arthur  Dillon  which  again  changed 
my  plans,  though  why  it  did  so  I  can  hardly  tell. 
Among  other  news  of  far  less  serious  import  to  me, 
Maria — evidently  trying  to  write  cheerfully  when  her 
heart  was  sad  and  heavy — ^informed  me  that  poor 
O^Shaughnessy  had  departed  this  life  some  three  days 
before  the  date  of  her  letter.  "  I  can  hardly  tell  you, 
Nelly,  how  much  we  miss  him  even  now,"  she  went  on, 
**  what  then  will  it  be  when  the  various  occasions  come 
round  (in  the  natural  course  of  time)  which  used  to 
draw  out  his  many  endearing  qualities.  Upon  my 
word,  Nell !  I  cannot  write  without  shedding  tears,  and 
even  Mamma  Dillon  has  her  eyes  *  like  two  burnt  holes 
in  a  blanket '  with  the  fair  dint  of  crying.  As  for  you 
and  George,  you  have  good  reason  to  cry  too,  for  you 
have  both  of  you  lost  a  warm  and  steadfast  friend. 
During  his  last  illness — it  was  not  very  long — at  least 
from  the  time  he  took  to  his  bed — only  eight  or  nine 
days — he  often  spoke  of  you,  and  the  very  day  before 
bis  death,  he  told  me  to  tell  you  that  your  promised 
home  in  Dominick  street  was  no  longer  there — *  tell  her,* 
•aid  he,  ^  that  it^s  gone  with  old  Shaugh  to  the  other 


BLINOR   PRBBTOff. 


255 


world.  As  I  can't  welcome  her  here,  I'll  give  ler  a 
hearty  welcome  there,  if  I'm  so  lucky  as  to  ineot  her. 
Tell  George  to  bo  a  good  boy  and  take  care  of  Elinor— 
by  the  bye !  I  had  a  queer  enough  dream  about  him 
last  night  I  thought  he  came  in  with  tlie  brass  label 
of  my  door  in  his  hand,  and  another  with  his  own  name 
on  it,  and  told  me  we  were  going  into  partnership.  I 
hope  there's  nothing  wrong  with  the  poor  fellow.  I 
don't  mind  dreams,  you  know,  but  somehow  I  can't 
help  thinking  of  this  one.'  Dear  old  maii,  his  end  wa« 
peaceful  and  happy,  just  as  iL  ought  to  be,  and  he  lefl 
his  love  and  blessing  for  George  and  yon.  Alfred  came 
to  see  him  a  few  days  before  his  de^  th.  He  is  buried 
close  to  your  father  in  Glasnevin,  and  his  i  phew,  whtt 
is  supposed  to  inherit  the  bulk  of  his  fortune,  into  xls  to 
erect  a  handsome  monument  over  h'm.'  Maria  kindly 
inquired  whether  there  was  any  chance  of  my  going 
home  again,  but  I  had  now  as  little  desire  to  go  back  to 
Ireland  as  though  I  had  neither  sister  nor  brother  there. 
"I  suppose,"  said  I  to  myself,  with  a  strange  feiling  of 
bitterness,  "  if  I  did  make  up  my  mind  to  go  home,  I 
should  hear  on  my  arrival,  or  perhaps  before,  that  I  had 
neither  one  nor  the  other  left — death  seems  to  have  our 
utter  extermination  in  viev'  -  I  will  not  buoy  myself  up 
with  the  hope  of  seeing  Alfred  or  Emily,  and  it  may  be 
that  death  will  spare  thf;m.  It  is  something  to  know 
that  I  have  them  f>till  in  life,  and  to  feel  that  there  are 
yet  two  hearts  in  this  world  to  share  in  my  feelings,  to 
mourn  and  to  rejoice  with  me.    I  will  remain  in  Canada, 


ln^ 


256 


ELINOR   PRESTOir. 


but  not  in  Montreal — I  am  sick  of  city-life,  and  must 
have  quiet,  at  any  cost." 

Such  was  the  state  of  my  mind  when,  to  my  great 
and  ple«asing  surprise,  I  received  a  letter  from  the  worthy 
Canadian  priest  who  had  crossed  the  river  with  George 
and  me  on  our  arrival  in  Canada.  The  object  of  his 
lettc^  was  to  ask  whether  I  could  reccomend  to  him  a 
young  lady  capable  of  teaching  both  French  and  English. 
He  had  tried  advertising,  he  said,  and  had  had  sundry 
applications,  but  none  of  the  applicants  seemed  to  suit — 
some  were  more  or  less  incompetent  and  others  were  so 
extravagantly  high  in  their  expectations  that  it  was  no 
use  to  think  of  engaging  them  for  a  country  school  in  a 
remote  parish.  "  True,"  said  he,  "  the  locality  is  a 
pleasant  one.  We  are  right  on  the  St.  Lawrence  in  the 
midst  of  a  smiling  country.  We  have  quite  a  pretty 
little  village,  too,  and  a  very  good  church.  Our  school- 
house  is  passable  enough,  but  what  of  all  this  when  we 
are  all  quiet  country-folks,  have  no  society  fit  for  "  highly- 
educated  young  ladies,"  and  worst  of  all,  are  full  fifty 
or  sixty  miles  from  your  great  centre  of  civilization. 
Still  I  thought  that  you  might  be  acquainted  with  some 
young  lady  of  very  moderate  expectations  who  would 
not  altogether  despise  our  poor  place.  It  would  be  easy 
lor  me  to  find  a  French  teacher,  but  many  of  our  vil- 
lagers are  anxious  to  have  their  children  learn  English, 
and  our  Seigneur's  wife  pv)sitively  insists  that  the  new 
teacher  must  both  speak  and  teach  English  well,  as  she 
has  a  family  of  daughters  who  must  know  that  langnago 
let  the  r  own  do  as  it  may.     If  you  can  do  anything  for 


XLINOR    PRBSTON. 


251 


me   in   this  matter,  my  good  young  friend,  )ou  wiH 
oblige 

Your  respectful  friend  and  well-wisher, 

Le  Comte,  pretre. 
Cure  de  St. 


isy 

ril- 

Ish, 

lew 
she 

[go 
(or 


As  I  read  this  letter  my  heart  swelled  with  gratitude, 
for  in  it  I  recognised  the  answer  to  my  fervtnt  prayer 
addre^ssed  before  her  shrine  to  Our  Lady  of  Bons  Se- 
cours.  "  A  thousand  thanks,  most  dear  mother,"  I  ex- 
claimed aloud  in  the  fulness  of  my  heart — to  St. . 

I  will  go — there  at  least  may  I  hope  for  peace,  as  far  fia 
retirement  can  give  it — there  will  I  merge  the  past  in 
the  present,  and  in  the  daily  discharge  of  my  humble 
duties,  endeavour  to  sanctify  my  soul  in  preparation  for 
the  final  hour  that  will  restore  me  to  those  I  have  lost. 
There,  unknowing  and  unknown,  1  can  glide  through  the 
remnant  of  my  life — it  may  be  short,  it  may  bo  long, 
but  it  cannot  be  feverish  in  a  place  like  that,  where  the 
busy  world  is  shut  out,  and  peace,  like  the  halcyon, 
sits  and  broods  forever. 

The  preliminaries  were  not  hard  to  arrange,  the  friendly 

reluctance  of  Lady to  let  me  go  being  my  greatest 

obstacle.  But  even  that  I  managed  to  surmount,  and 
as  soon  as  the  navigation  opened,  I  went  to  Su  — 
with  the  full  determination  of  making  it  my  permanent 
liomc,  if  such  were  the  will  of  God, 

Four  tranquil  years  have  rolled  away  since  I  settled 


I 


:ik 


258 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


down  in  this  quiet  nook,  and  yet  I  only  begin  now  to 
feel  myself  at  home.  It  is  true  I  found  peace  here  from 
the  very  first — indeed  I  could  not  choose  but  find  it,  for 
it  pcrva(ios  the  very  atmosphere.  Stir  or  bustle  of  any 
kind  there  is  none  :  even  the  few  store-keepers  who  sup- 
ply the  simple  necessaries  of  village  life  go  through  their 
business  in  a  quiet,  mechanical  sort  of  way  that  seems 
strange  (at  first)  to  one  who  has  all  her  life  be>en  accus- 
tomed to  the  professional  alacrity  and  dapper  civility 
of  first-class  metropolitan  houses.  As  for  society,  1 
might  as  well  have  been  in  the  centre  of  the  Great 
African  Desert — with  the  single  exception  of  the  good 
priest  and  mademoiselle  his  sister,  a  lady  who  calls  her- 
self thirty,  but  appears  as  though  she  dropt  some  ten  or 
fifteen  years  somewhere  in  the  calculation.  She  is  very 
hospitable,  however,  and  very  pious,  and  alas !  very  si- 
lent— which  latter  qualification  is  by  no  means  common 
amongst  her  countrywomen,  who  will  chatter  away  for 
hours  together  on  subjects  of  little  importance  to  any 
but  themselves,  their  tongues  rattling  on  in  such  a  shrill, 
voluble  way,  and  with  so  much  rapidity  that  strangers 
find  it  hard  to  understand  them,  at  least  until  they  are 
accustomed  to  their  peculiar  intonation. 

For  some  time,  indeed  a  long  time,  I  felt  very  lonely 
in  my  new  position,  utterly  isolated  as  I  was  amongst 
a  people  with  whom  I  had  little  in  common ;  but  grad- 
ually that  feeling  woi  c  away,  and  I  began  to  relish  the 
soothing  stillness  of  all  around.  The  very  trees  were 
at  first  strange  to  me,  and  it  was  not  till  my  second  sum- 
mer in  St. that  I  could  feel  satisfied  to  have  my 


ELINOR    PRESTOK. 


259 


home  shaded  with  the  tamarac,  the  maple,  and  the  dark 
Canadian  pine,  instead  of  the  familiar  oak  and  ash  and 
the  broad- leaved,  graceful  sycamore.  The  birds  that 
people  tk  'ir  branches,  too,  are  not  the  tuneful  songsters 
of  my  t>\vn  dear  native  land — they  are  gay  and  gaudy 
in  their  plumage,  but  there  is  no  music  in  their  voice. 


no  warblings  sweet  from  their  throats  arise, 

Like  the  wood-notes  wild  of  my  native  skies." 


At  early  morning  or  late  evening  when  I  walk  abroad, 
I  miss  the  warble  of  the  linnet  and  the  thrush,  and  the 
musical  whistle  of  the  blackbird.  Even  the  "  corn-creak  ' 
of  the  meadows — that  most  inharmonious  of  birds — would 
be  thrice  welcome  to  me  ;  for  the  bull-frog  who  generally 
sings  out  "  the  parting  day  "  in  Canadian  lowlands,  though 
there  is  certainly  some  similarity  in  their  tones,  cannot 
possibly  serve  as  a  substitute.  But  most  of  all  the 
winged  choristers  of  the  air,  I  missed  and  do  still  miss 
the  gentle  cuckoo,  the  herald  of  the  spring,  whom  some 
one  happily  calls  **  the  hand-maid  of  the  opening  year." 
Of  old  we  used  to  vie  with  each  other  as  to  who  should 
first  hear  the  cuckoo's  note,  but  now  1  hear  it  not  at  all 
— even  that  is  with  the  past — one  of  childhood's  sounds, 
destined  to  linger  in  the  darkened  heait  so  long  as  it  has 
a  pulse. 

Be  our  lot  ever  so  happy  in  the  land  of  our  adoption, 
still  it  can  never  be  to  us  like  the  land  of  our  birth, 
where  the  days  of  our  youth  lie  smiling  behind  us,  in 
their  spring-time  freshness — where  every  scene  around 


M 


l'  I 


260 


ELINOR  PRE8T0V. 


our  childhood's  home  is  a  precious  piature  hung  up 
within  that  pwture-gallery  of  the  mind,  commonly  called 
memory.  Yet  other  and  more  tender  ties  there  are  to 
bind  us  to  our  native  land : 

"  The  grMB  that  iprtngs  on  our  fathers'  graves, 

Full  many  a  thought  endears, — 
There's  a  spell  in  the  humblest  shrub  that  wavei 

Near  the  home  of  our  infant  years. 
Tea,  tht  simplest  leaf  doth  our  fondness  share 

If  its  parent  bud  expanded  there. 

•*  Oh  thus ! — tho'  far  on  a  foreign  strand 

My  lonely  lot  is  cast ; — 
Still,  still  for  thee,  my  Fatherland  I 

The  pulse  of  my  heart  bjiats  fast ; 
While  many  a  yision,  soft  and  bland, 

Bears  me  back  to  thy  shores,  my  Fatherland  t  "* 

Soon,  however,  I  became  attached  to  my  pretty  rural 
home.  I  got  an  old  Canadian  woman  and  her  daughter 
to  keep  my  little  house  and  the  adjoining  school-room 
in  order.  As  for  the  cooking,  I  generally  did  that  my- 
self— it  was  little  I  required,  but  even  that  little  I  wished 
to  have  done  in  my  own  way,  and,  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life,  I  got  up  to  my  elbows  in  flour  occasionally,  to 
the  great  discomfort  of  old  Marie,  who  insisted  thafe  her 
bread  was  of  prime  quality.  It  might  have  been,  for 
all  I  know,  but  to  my  taste  it  was  rather  dark  in  color 
and  had  a  habitual  tendency  to  the  acid  which  my  palate 
could  never  relish.  When  I  first  began  my  culinary 
experiments,  the  old  woman  used  to  get  quite  ruflled  at 


•  Capt  T.  G.  Smith,  27th  Regiment 


ELINOR   PRESTOir. 


261 


my  obstinate  perseverance  in  what  appeared  to  her,  new* 
fkngled  plans.  It  was  no  uncommon  thing  fur  her  to 
lecture  me  well  and  soundly. 

"I  tell  you,  Ma'amselie,  that's  not  the  way  to  make 
bread ! " 

"  Well !  never  mind,  Marie,  let  us  try,  at  any  rate :  I 
can  only  spoil  it,  you  know !  " 

"  Nonsense !  you  just  know  as  much  about  making 
bread  as  that  cat  by  the  fire  j — it's  a  sin  to  spoil  good 
flour ! " 

Great  was  her  surprise,  and,  indeed,  my  own,  when 
my  bread  turned  out  not  only  eatable,  but  tolerably 
good. 

With  regard  to  the  soup  I  had  still  greater  difficulty, — 
in  fact  I  never  could  succeed  in  persuading  my  old  duenna 
that  beef  or  mutton  made  better  soup  than  pork  which 
she  prized  in  proportion  to  its  depth  of  fat,  for  that  and 
all  other  purposes.  No  one  can  tell  her  mortification, 
when  after  displaying  all  her  culinary  skill  in  pre- 
paring a  mess  of  this  kind,  with  the  tempting  addition 
of  red  beans, — partly,  I  suppose,  for  color,  partly  for 
*lavor, — I  left  the  sole  enjoyment  of  it  to  herself  and 
Laure,  her  pretty  daughter.  Her  muttered  comments 
on  my  singularity  of  taste  were  anything  but  compli- 
mentary. Poor  old  body !  she  is  truly  faithful,  but  re- 
quires as  much  humoring  as  a  petted  child.  Still,  on 
the  wh(>le,  she  and  I  get  along  well  together.  Notwith- 
standing my  fancied  inferiority  in  the  culinary  art,  she 
shares  the  common  feeling  of  the  villagers  in  regard  to 
my  great  learning  and  so  forth  j  and  I   believe  Ma'am 


'Ttl 


■M 


262 


XLIHOR   PRISTOK. 


Longre  is  i.ot  a  little  proud  of  being  my  Grand  Vizies. 
I  am  teaching  Laure  both  French  and  English,  permit* 
ting  her  to  Uike  her  place  regularly  in  the  school-classes, 
and  that  has  won  for  me  the  old  woman^s  heart.  It  is 
true  Lnure  makes  but  a  poor  offer  at  the  English,  but 
to  hear  her  attempt  reading  it  is  both  joy  and  pride  to 
her  mother's  simple  heart. 

My  school  consists  of  about  fifty  girls,  some  of  them 
almost  "  women  grown,"  while  others  are  l)arely  able 
to  toddle  along  with  the  help  of  an  older  sister's  hand. 
As  I  sit  in  the  midst  of  them,  painfully  striving  to  fix 
the  letters  of  the  alphabet  in  the  minds  of  some,  drilling 
the  others  in  the  art  of  spelling,  and  witnessing  on  all 
sides  the  cruel  torture  of  my  own  language,  writhing  in 
the  mouths  of  those  to  whom  it  is  new,  and  strange,  and 
uncouth — sometimes  sending  one  "juvenile  "  or  another 
out  to  the  kitchen  to  wash  her  hands  before  she  can  com- 
mence her  lesson,  I  ask  myself:  "  Am  I  indeed  Elinor 
Preston  ? — have  I  known  life  in  its  higher  and  more  pol- 
ished circles  ? — was  this  the  aspect  which  the  future  wore 
when  in  youthful  dreams  I  saw  it?*'  What  wonder  if  I 
doubt  my  own  identity. 

When  at  twelve  o'clock  the  forenoon  school  was  dis- 
missed, and  I  took  my  seat  at  my  lonely  board,  with 
one  solitary  plate  and  one  dish  before  me,  I  felt  pretty 
much  as  Robinson  Crusoe  musthave  done  before  his  soli- 
tude was  broken  by  the  company  of  his  man  Friday. 
As  memory  glanced  over  the  gay  and  sparkling  reunion$ 
of  former  years — the  elegantly  and  plenteously-spread 
table  to  which  I  had  all  my  life  long  been  accustomed, 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


263 


di»- 
with 

•ettjr 
solU 

[day. 

iion$ 

Iread 
Led| 


and  the  loved  companions  who  would  have  made  even 
poverty  cheerful — ah !  the  change  was  very,  very  strik* 
ing,  and  many  a  time,  during  the  first  month,  1  would 
leave  my  meal  untasted,  to  the  grievous  disappointment 
of  poor  Marie,  and  walk  abroad  in  the  forest  till  the 
hand-bell,  rung  by  the  eldest  girl,  summoned  me  back 
to  my  weary  post. 

Seatcnl  once  more  at  my  little  desk,  flanked  on  one 
side  with  a  pile  of  blotted  copy-books  and  one  of  slates 
on  the  other,  my  wayward  imagination  would  soar  over 
mountain,  sea,  and  river  to  the  busy  haunts  of  men. 
Again,  the  noise  of  a  great  city  was  in  my  ear,  its  cries, 
its  bustle,  its  confusion :  every  sound,  even  to  the  grind- 
ing music  of  the  street-organ — all  were  there,  mingling 
oddly  enough  with  the  monotonous  hum  of  young  voices 
near  me,  as  the  children  prepared  their  afternoon  lessons. 
Ever  as  I  wrote  the  head-lines  and  set  the  sums,  would 
that  rcsvless  faculty  before-mentioned  amuse  itself  with 
sketching  by-gone  scenes,  summoning  the  very  dead 
from  their  graves  to  play  their  parts  over  again  in  the 
recesses  of  my  brain.  Aunt  Kate  was  there,  with  her 
harmless  pride  of  lineage — how  she  would  have  looked 
had  she  seen  me  at  my  task ! — my  mother,  with  her 
calm,  intellectual  countenance  wearing  a  pensive  smile 
— ^my  father's  hearty,  cheerful  laugh  echoed  through  the 
sorrow-stilled  heart — Carry  and  George  were  there,  in 
their  life-hues  warm  and  bright;  and  Alfred  and  Emily, 
with  their  chastened  look  of  love.  There,  too,  was  old 
Shaugh,  merry  and  light-hearted  as  ever — and  there,  too, 
were  figures  which  will  hold  their  place  on  the  world'i 


f 


264 


KLINOR   FRBSTOir. 


Stage  as  long  ns  history  lasts.  O'Connell  and  Sheil,  and 
honest  Tom  Steele,  and  many  another  public  character 
passed  again  before  my  mind,  until  I  was  almost  bewil- 
dered with  the  crowd  of  ghostly  phantoms. 
"  What  you  call  dat  word,  Ma'amselle  ?  " 
At  the  s(nmd  of  the  little  childish  voice,  striving  hard 
to  get  out  so  much  English,  off  in  a  troop  went  the  shad- 
owy visitors  from  the  past,  yea!  even  the  Liberator 
himself — the  mighty  Atlas  who  carried  all  Ireland  on 
his  shoulders — and  back  I  came  to  the  full  consciousness 
of  the  present — its  dry,  unvarying,  monotonous  details 
were  all  before  me,  staring  me  full  in  the  face. 

Few  are  the  incidents  of  these  four  years.  In  general, 
the  days  have  flown  by,  "uncounted  in  their  flight," 
bearing  such  a  family  likeness  to  each  other  that  there 
was  no  distinguishing  them  when  they  were  once  past. 
Going  down  to  the  presbytery  to  tea.  or  being  driven 
over  by  Mademoiselle  Le  Comte  to  the  manor-house — 
which  was,  indeed,  nothing  more  than  a  respectable 
farm-house — to  spend  the  evening,  these  were  notable 
occurrences,  though  they  took  place,  perhaps  on  an  aver- 
age, once  a  week.  Weddings  and  christenings  were, 
after  all,  the  great  "  foot-marks  of  time  " — for  I  was,  in 
this  regard,  public  property,  and  could  no  more  think  of 
refusing  such  an  invitation  than  I  would  of  going  by  tele- 
graph to  Montreal.  There  was  no  merry-making  com- 
plete without  ma^amselle^  and  nothing  could  exceed  the 
easy,  graceful  deference  with  which  the  villagers  treated 
me  when  among  them.  Those  who  have  never  lived 
among  the  hahitans  of  Lower  Canada  can  form  no  idea 


FT.TNOR   PRE8T0K. 


265 


},  in 
ikof 
Itele- 
join- 
the 
lated 
ived 
idea 


of  that  natural,  unsophisticated  politeness  wh"  th  distin- 
guishes them  from  all  the  peasantry  I  have  ever  seen. 
There  is  a  suavity,  even  a  refinement  in  their  manners, 
which  makes  their  society  very  pleasant.*  I  soon  began, 
accordingly,  to  reckon  events  from  "Ma'am  Dubois' 
christening,"  or  "Auguste  Lacroix's  wedding,"  and  it 
used  to  amuse  me  no  little  to  find  myself  making  up  a 
calendar  out  of  the  domestic  history  of  my  neiLdibors. 

My  rarest  enjoyment,  however,  was  in  the  society  of 
the  good  vicar,  who  alone,  of  all  my  present  associates, 
knew  anything  whatever  of  Ireland.  True,  his  knowledge 
of  that  most  neglected  country  was  not  very  extensive, 
but  he  was  really  anxious  to  know  something  more  of 
it,  and  the  few  I^-ish  books  which  I  had  with  me  were  a 
source  of  real  pleasure  to  him.  Having  read  these  over, 
the  good  man  began  to  think  himself  quite  master  of  the 
subject,  and  it  was  amusing  to  hear  him  floundering 
away  in  the  troubled  waters  of  Irish  affairs  for  the 
special  enlightenment  of  his  friend,  Monsieur  Garneau, 
our  Seigneur,  whose  head  was  somewhat  of  the  thickest, 
and  who  took  about  as  much  interest  in  the  subject  as 
the  pipe  he  habitually  smoked. 

"  How  is  it,  sir,"  I  one  day  asked  the  vicar,  "  that 
even  the  educated  among  your  people  take  so  little  in- 
terest in  the  history  of  Ireland  ?  They  seem  to  ignore 
my  poor  country  altogether,  wholly  overlooking  the  fact 

*  In  the  towns  and  cities  this  natural  refinement  is  in  a  great 
measure  worn  off  by  the  rude  contact  of  rowdies  and  loafers  of  erery 
origin.  It  is  only  in  the  country  you  will  see  Jean  Bapti^te  in  hit 
normal  state;  theft  and  many  other  city  vices  being  there  wholly 
vnknowD. 

23 


266 


ELINOR   PREBTOir. 


that  she  is  one  of  the  oldest  Christian  nations — perhapi 
the  vrry  oMcst — of  Western  Europe,  and  has  more 
Christian  antiquities  to  show  than  any  otlier  country  in 
the  world  for  her  size.  Has  she  not  been  fighting  the 
battle  (»f  Christianity  in  peace  and  in  war,  since  il 
was  first  planted  on  her  soil  over  fourteen  centuries 
ago?" 

The  priest  shrugged  his  shoulders — admitted  Ircland^s 
claims,  but  could  not  account  for  her  l)eing  so  little 
known  or  tiilked  of  among  his  people. 

•*Is  it  because  she  is  unfortunate  and  reduced  in  cir- 
cumstinccs?"  I  went  on;  "if  so,  the  Catholic  nations 
who  nej^lected  her  shall  have  their  neglect  to  answer  for. 
If  Ireland  be  poor  and  powerless  to-day,  it  is  because  of 
her  fidelity  to  God  and  His  Church  ; — bad  she  yielded 
to  either  threats  or  persuasions — to  torture  and  per- 
secution or  wily  promises,  she  would  be  now  and  long 
ago  the  petted  darling  of  the  British  Empire  instead  of 
what  she  is, — the  hardly-used  step-child  of  a  Protestant 
government — the  *Niobe  of  nations,'  as  she  has  been 
aptly  styled." 

Mr.  Le  Comte  smiled  at  my  warmth,  but  his  Catho- 
lic heart  felt  the  justice  of  what  I  said  ;  and  he  applied 
himself  more  than  ever  to  the  study  of  Irish  history  and 
Irish  hagiology.  It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  me  to  en- 
courage the  good  pastor  in  this  new  pursuit,  by  verbal 
descriptions  of  such  of  our  ecclesiastical  remains  as  I  had 
myself  seen.  He  has  not  yet  attained  any  proficiency 
in  English  conversation — and  what  is  more — I  feai  he 
never  will.     It  is  in  French,  therefore,  that  I  am  obliged 


E'^^OR   PRESTON. 


267 


j]! 


ho- 
led 
tnd 

50- 

»al 

lad 
cy 
Ibe 
^d 


to  describe  tlic  places  nave  seen  ;  and  n\y  ilcst  riptions, 
though  highly  interesting  .o  Monsieur  le  Cnri:^  ure,  I 
fear,  tircsonie  enough  to  poor  "  Mii'niselli',"  wlio  tries 
hard  to  keep  up  appearances  in  the  way  of  listening,  till 
her  simple  mind  is  fairly  overtasked,  and  she  will  put 
fciome  ludierously -irrelevant  question  in  the  nndst  of 
some  highly-colored  account  of  a  baronial  castle  or  a 
stately  abbey.  Thus  I  have  known  her  to  raise  her 
eyes  suddenly  from  her  sewing  or  knitting,  after  listen- 
ing attentively — at  least  to  all  appearance — while  I  told 
of  the  princely  chieftains  who  of  old  ibught  for  their 
country  and  their  faith, — the  O'Neills,  perhaps,  or 
O'Donnells — and  ask,  with  much  earnestness,  whether  I 
had  noticed  that  new  breed  of  hens  in  Madaiue  Garncau^a 
/arm-yard.  Not  at  all  disconcerted  by  her  brother's 
hearty  laugh,  or  my  subdued  smile,  the  gotjd  lady  would 
go  on  to  descant  on  the  peculiar  properties  of  the  new 
importation,  in  a  way  that  would  secure  her  a  place  in  a 
Natural  History  Society,  had  there  been  such  a  thing  in 
our  village. 

The  calm  current  of  our  daily  life  was  but  seldom 

ruffled  by  any  remarkable  incident.      Lady had 

kindly  sent  me,  a  few  weeks  after  my  arrival  in  the  vil- 
lage, a  choice  collection  of  books,  containing  many  ap- 
proved Catholic  works,  together  with  sundry  volumes  of 
good  poetry,  a  set  of  Shakspearc,  a  Douay  Bible,  and 
the  Pilgrim's  Progress.  Poor  John  Bunyan  !  worse  even 
than  thine  own  Giant  Despair  would  have  been  to  thee 
the  company  of  that  unholy  book  on  which  King  Jamie 
never  smiled — the  knowledge  of  such  a  freight  being 


208 


XLINOR    PRK8T0N. 


on  bo.irel,  would  have  plunged  thoc  forthwith  in  the 
Slough  of  Dt'spond  !  Happily  John's  Pilpri>>'.  waa  not 
80  sonsitivc, — like  a  staid,  sober  man,  as  a  pilgs  ..i  ought 
to  be,  he  ki'pt  his  opinion  of  the  Rhemish  fathers  to  him- 
self,  and  kept  the  peace  with  their  obnoxious  book  during 
the  entire  voyage,  to  the  great  comfort  and  edificatior. 
of  their  ungodly  travelling  companions,  Will  Shaks- 
peare,  T(>ni  Moore,  and  divers  other  mirth-loving  and 
mirth-moving  book-men.  Need  I  say  how  welcome  this 
goodly  company  was  to  me  in  my  all  but  solitude, — the 
Pilgrim  was,  of  course,  an  exception.  Well  for  me  that 
the  kind  donor  never  thought  of  asking  what  I  did  with 
poor  Bunyan.  In  confidence  be  it  told  that  I  made  an 
auto  da  fe  of  him,  having  no  mind  to  cumber  my  shelves 
with  such  Pharisaical  rant. 

I  was  sitting  one  evening  in  early  summer,  just  within 
the  open  door  of  my  school-room,  reading  a  volume  of 
Fieury's  Ecclesiastical  History.  I  had  taken  refuge 
there  from  a  certain  house-cleaning  fit  which  had  all  day 
long  kept  Mother  Longpre  and  her  daughter  on  the 
stretch,  and  left  me  not  a  spot  whereon  to  rest.  After 
a  while  the  book  dropped  from  my  hand,  and,  dreaming 
of  the  past,  I  fell  into  a  gentle  slumber.  Ail  at  once  I 
was  roused  by  an  approaching  footstep,  and  looking  up, 
1  perceived  a  stranger  in  the  act  of  crossing  the  thresh- 
old, lie  was  a  short,  thick-set  man,  well  clothed  with 
fat,  and  over  that  a  rusty  black  suit  which  must  have 
originally  encased  some  notable  preacher  of  the  word. 
A  broad  neck-tie  enveloped  his  throat,  and  in  its  folds 
reposi'd  a  \mv^  Bcshy  chin,  surmounted  by  a  large,  coarso 


iLtNOR    PRBSTOlf. 


200 


mouth,  which  with  a  pair  of  full  round  » yos,  pn>^octing 
consideniljly  from  their  sockets,  gave  (piitc  u  siiisual 
cast  to  the  dull  countenance,  lliere  was  a  l)ii?sl\,  busi- 
ness air  about  the  nian^s  whole  figure  that  contrasted 
very  oddly  with  his  clerical  garments.  Nud(lin<;  to  me 
with  a  *'  Fine  evening,  miss  !  "  ho  passed  on  to  the  centre 
of  the  room,  and  there  deposited  on  the  table  a  bulk/ 
parcel  which  he  had  hitherto  carried  under  his  right  arm. 
lie  next  proceeded  to  take  off  his  hat,  (wliich  1  observed 
was  crammed  with  printed  papers,)  laid  it  on  the  table 
beside  his  parcel,  and  very  leisurely  established  his  own 
cumbrous  body  on  u  neighboring  chair.  Tic  iIkii  hon- 
ored me  with  his  attention,  and  I  suppose  the  man^s  as- 
surance brought  a  rush  of  the  old  Preston  blood  to  my 
face. 

"  May  I  ask  what  it  is  that  brings  you  here,  sir  ?  "  I 
at  length  asked.  The  visitor  answered  in  tolerably  good 
English. 

"  I  come  on  the  part  of  him  who  sent  Paul  to  preach 
to  the  Gentiles." 

"  Oh,  indeed !  and  for  what  purpose,  pray  ?  " 

"  To  give  you  that  which  is  beyond  all  earthly  treas- 
ure^— yea,  young  woman!  even  the  saving  knowledge 
of  the  truth  which  is  in  Him ! "  and  he  turned  up  the 
whites  of  his  eyes  with  a  very  pious  air,  indeed.  I  had^ 
often  heard  from  my  old  woman  and  others  of  the  vil-, 
lagers  how  certain  religious  colporteurs  paid  them  a  visit 
at  times,  but  never  till  now  had  I  seen  one  of  the  tribe 
in  his  proper  person.  1  was  rather  pleased  to  see  such 
a  moral  curiosity,  and  in  order  to  draw  him  out,  I  very 


1 

I 


i 


I 


I' 


270 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


demurely  thanked  him  for  his  good  intentions,  where* 
upon  he  was  mightily  encouraged,  and  talking  a  small 
Bible  from  his  bundle  he  presented  it  to  me  with  a  smile 
which  he  meant  to  be  very  gracious.  But  my  Gentile 
hand  was  not  forthcoming  to  receive  the  gift,  and  the 
man  of  grace  opened  his  eyes  very  wide  indeed. 

"  Will  not  my  sister  receive  the  word  of  God, — yea, 
even  the  Book  of  books  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  have  a  Bible  already — one  is  quite 
sufficient." 

He  was  evidently  taken  aback,  but  quickly  recovered 
himself  on  a  new  tack  :  "  Oh !  Ma'amselle  has  already 
seen  the  light — I  thought  there  was  a  precious  germ  of 
grace  within — within  '*  he  was  evidently  casting  about 
for  a  compliment,  "  within  that—" 

My  good  friend,"  said  I,  cutting  him  very  short,  "  if 
you  have  no  other  business  with  me,  you  will  oblige  me 
by  retiring,  as  /have  other  matters  to  attend  to." 

"Alas ! "  he  sighed,  or  rather  groaned,  *'  this  is  the 
business  of  life — the  one  thing  necessary  !  " 

"  What  is,  may  I  ask  ?  "  Wholly  unprepared  for  this 
cross-questiuiiing,  my  pious  visitor  began  to  wax  what  is 
vulgarly  called  fidgety. 

"  Why,  this— the  affair  of  salvation,"  he  hesitated^ 
"you  know  we  are  told  to  search  the  Scriptures." 

"I  know  we  are,"  said  I,  "but  not  in  your  sense. 
Have  you  anything  more  to  say  1 " 

"Yea,  woman,  I  have.  You  are  proud  of  your 
■worldly  knowledge, — but  you  have  not  learnt  to  know 
God  and  his  Christ." 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


271 


I  I 


"if 
me 


the 


snse. 
rour 

lOW 


"Indeed! — I  ftin  sorry  to  hear  it,"  I  said,  beginning 
to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  my  book — "and  pray,  when 
am  I  to  have  my  first  lesson  ?  " 

He  shook  liis  head  with  a  puzzled  air.  "Ah,  sUter  ! 
you  speak  as  one  who  has  but  little  relish  for  the  things 
of  God !  Yuii  sit  in  darkness,  and  in  the  shadow  of  death ! " 

"Thank  you  onee  more! — you  are  really  quite  flat- 
tering. Have  you  got  anything  more  to  say,  for  I  cannot 
listen  much  longer  ?  " 

"  You  could  listen  to  the  priest,  that  man  of  Belial, 
that  trader  in  human  souls.  Alas  !  poor  dupe  of  priest- 
craft and  superstition  ! — why  will  you  close  your  ears, 
yea,  and  your  heart,  against  the  sweet  words  of  salvation 
—why  will  you  turn  aside  from  the  living  water  of  the 
Hock,  and  quench  your  thirst  with  the  muddy  water — 
the  rotten,  filthy  water  offered  by  an  idolatrous  priest- 
hood !  I  once  drank  of  it  myself,  as  my  people  did  be- 
fore me,  but  the  good  God  called  me  forth  from  Baby- 
Ion,  and  I  answered  :  *  Here  I  am  ;  Lord,  what  wilt  thou 
of  thy  servant?  *  Since  then  I  have  walked  in  pleasiint 
pastures,  by  running  waters.  I  have  cast  off  the  bridle 
from  my  understanding,  and  rejoice  that  I  am  a  free 
man — free  in  Christ  the  Lord."  I  rose  suddenly,  and 
he  rose  too,  but  manifested  no  intention  to  move. 

"  Be  good  enough  to  walk  out,  sir ! "  said  I,  holding 
the  door  in  my  hand,  **0i  I  shall  be  obliged  to  call  for 
aid.     And  mark  me,  Mr. ,  what's  your  name  ? " 

"  My  name  is  Jacques  Larue !  " 

"Well !  mark  me,  Mr.  Jacques  Larue — an  apostate  I 
presume  you  arc ! — never,  while  this  house  belongs  to  ros^ 


I  i 


H 


.  '  :i 


i! 


272 


ELINOR   PRSSTOir. 


take  the  libertj  of  crossing  the  threshold  again.**  Tfco 
fellow  glanced  around  with  a  sly,  mocking  expression  of 
countenance  that  was  not  at  all  in  keeping  with  his  previous 
sanctimony.     I  understood  the  glance. 

"Don't  depend  on  my  being  alone!"  I  said,  "for  if 
you  ever  set  foot  in  here  again  you  may  find  a  recep- 
tion that  you  will  not  relish." 

By  this  time  the  children  were  coming  in  to  the  after- 
noon school,  and  my  strange  visitor  was  bolting  through 
the  door,  leaving  his  Bible  behind,  whether  intentionally 
or  not  1,  of  course,  knew  not. 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  take  that  book  with  you, 
friend!"  I  said,  pointing  to  it;  "else  I  might  find  it 
stated  in  the  next  Missionary  Record  that  you  had  left 
it  in  the  hands  of  the  school-teacher  of  this  village,  at 
her  own  request,  and  had  great  hopes  therefrom  of  her 
spiritual  regeneration." 

Muttering  to  himself  something  about  Jezabel,  and 
Popish  darkness,  ho  took  up  his  l)Ook,  and  passed  out 
into  the  street.  When  once  beyond  the  door,  a  thought 
struck  him,  and  turning  back  with  a  face  of  comical  in- 
tensity— if  one  may  say  so— ho  asked :  "  Ma'amselle, 
where  did  you  come  from  1 " 

"From  a  country,"  I  answered,  "where  the  like  of 
you  is  well  known — where  the  people  are  all  wide  awake, 
and  have  their  eye  on  wolves  who  come  in  sheep's  cloth- 
ing. Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  am  impolite,  but  you  drew  it 
on  yourself  in  the  first  place  by  your  most  unwarrant- 
able intrusion,  and  again  by  your  scurrilous  attack  on 
my  rel'^ion  and  its  ministers,'* 


SLIKOR    PREBTON. 


273 


[ 


That  was  the  first  and  last  visit  I  received  from  Mon 
sieur  Jacques  Larue.  On  going  into  the  house,  how- 
ever, I  found  that  he  had  been  there  before  I  saw  him, 
and  gave  Laure  two  tracts,  one  entitled  The  True  Way  to 
Worship  God^  and  the  other,  Virgin  Worship^  or  Rome 
Exposed.  The  former  was  in  French,  the  hitter  in  Eng- 
lish, Thankful  to  receive  the  gift,  and  little  imagining 
what  it  really  was,  the  girl  had  laid  the  tracts  on  a  shelf 
till  she  should  find  time  to  read  them.  Great  was  her 
surprise  and  that  of  her  mother,  when  I  made  her  tak« 
them  pflcr  the  pedlar,  who  was  still  in  sight,  charging 
her,  if  he  refused  to  tiike  them,  to  tear  them  in  pieces 
before  his  eyes.  The  latter  she  really  did,  wondering 
all  the  time  what  it  meant.  When  she  returned  I  irave 
herself  and  her  mother  such  an  explanation  of  the  pros- 
elytfng  system — as  far  as  they  could  understand  it— 
that  I  think  they  will  hardly  ever  open  the  duor  to  a 
colporteur  whether  I  am  out  or  in. 

Next  day,  when  the  children  came  to  school,  they  were 
all  full  of  the  colporteur.  He  had  visited  almost  every 
house,  and  many  of  the  girls  had  a  whole  budget  of 
news  concerning  him.  In  one  house  he  had  called  the 
priest  a  liar,  and  was  belabored  by  the  w^'  icn  with  their 
broom-handles  and  other  such  utensils,  for  his  pains. 
In  another  place  he  had  been  caught  by  the  man  of  the 
house  urging  his  doetrine  on  his  bonne  femme  in  a  way 
80  impressive  that  it  stirred  his  old  Norman  blood,  and 
he  despatchi'd  the  pious  interloper  with  a  very  iwjpi(»us 
kick  on  a  certain  unmentionable  part  of  his  coifm^ 
threatening;  still  morf  active  measures  if  he  ever  sho\vi:'i 


m 


ii 


l! 


m 


ELINOR   PRBSTOK. 


his  face  there  again.  One  little  girl,  with  that  mi» 
chievous  Ijlaclt  eye  so  often  found  among  the  Canadian 
women,  (whose  beaux  yeux  are  so  proudly  extolled  by 
their  admiring  countrymen,*)  had  a  laughable  story  to 
tell  of  h«;w  she  and  her  three  little  brotliers  had  fright- 
ened away  the  pedlar  by  calling  their  old  dog  Loup, 
agreeably  to  their  mother's  instructions.  How  he  rau 
off  puffing  and  blowing ;  how  he  dropt  his  bundle,  and 
dare  not  return  for  it  for  fear  of  Loup.  That  was  tha 
height  of  fun,  and  seemed  to  tickle  the  youngsters  might- 
ily. This  story  carried  the  suflrages  of  the  assembly, 
and  the  merriment  to  which  it  gave  rise  was  fast  growing 
into  anarchy,  when  my  bell  restored  the  little  folks  to 
order,  and  Hermine's  story  was  left  standing  over  for 
the  mid-day  recess.  In  one  or  two  places  it  appeared 
that  Jacques  had  succeeded  in  having  a  talk  on  religious 
subjects,  though  the  story  went  that  he  got  the  worst  of 
it.  Travelling  on  down  the  street,  he  met  some  boya 
playing  just  in  front  of  the  church,  and  on  them  Mon- 
sieur Jacques  made  a  dead  set  as  I  afterwards  learned. 
The  dialogue,  it  seems,  was  something  in  this  wise: 

*'  Young  boys,  come  here ;  I  wish  to  tell  you  some- 
thing that  you  will  like  to  hear." 

Boys  gathering  round,  with  ears  and  eyes  wide  open : 
"What  is  it  about  1" 

♦  **  Vive  la  Canadienne,  et  ses  beaux  jeuz, 
Mt  aea  beaux  yeux  tous  doux, 
fit  tea  beiuix  jcux." 

— Chorus  of  the  National  Song — 

V%v€  la  OanaditnM. 


ELINOR   PRKSTOir. 


271 


**  About  the  beginning  of  the  world — how  God  made 
all  things/' 

"  Bah  !  that's  nothing  new — dont  we  know  all  about 
It?" 

"  No,  you  don't." 

"  I  tell  you  we  do.  And  if  that's  all  the  story  you 
have  to  toll  us,  we  won't  listen." 

"Well!  then,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  the  good  Saviour 
— how  he  came  into  the  world." 

"  Yes,  yes,  he  was  born  in  a  stable  on  Christmas  night, 
and  the  BKssed  Virgin  and  St.  Joseph  and  the  ox  and 
the  ass  were  with  him " 

"And  his  mother  wrapped  him  in  swaddling-clothes," 
interrupted  another,  "and  laid  him  in  the  manger.  Why, 
sir,  we  knov/  it  all ;  even  little  Paul  there,  tha*^'s  only 
five  years  old,  can  tell  you  all  about  the  Holy  Infant 
Jesus " 

"  Yes,"  suiil  the  gaffer  alluded  to,  "if  you'll  come 
home  with  me,  I'll  show  him  to  you.  Mother  has  him  in 
a  crib,  and  wo  all  pray  to  him  every  night  and  moming." 

"  Well  !  well !"  said  tlie  baffled  professor  of  Christian 
doctrine,  "  kt  me  tell  vou  how  he  died  on  the  cros^  to 
save  sinners."         « 

Tiiis  made  the  boys  iudisrnant:  "Is  it  that  we  don't 
know  that  1 — why,  even  the  crucifix  tells  us  that  story. 
You're  a  nice  man  to  be  calling  us  from  our  play  to  tell 
us  what  we  all  know." 

"  Poor  children  !  "  grunted  the  pitying  pedlar,  "  yoc 
are  in  darkness,  and  you  don't  know  it.  The  priest  will 
not  teach  you  himself,  nor  let  others  teaeh  you." 


19 


i 


276 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


"  That's  not  truo,"  said  one  of  the  elder  boys,  manfully ; 
"  Monsieur  le  Curi  has  catechism  every  Sunday.  I  think 
ke  tells  us  many  things  that  you  couldn't  tell  us.  Come 
along,  boys ! — who  has  the  ball  ?  " 

The  pedlar  stopt  them  again,  and  began  searching  his 
pockets  for  tracts  to  give  them.  "  Bah  !  where's  the  use — 
most  of  us  can't  read — besides,  the  priest  says  your  books 
are  not  good.  You'd  better  give  them  to  Annette  La- 
marche  !  "  This  was  the-  woman  who  made  the  pedlar's 
shoulders  ache  on  the  previous  day  ;  and  the  sly  piece 
of  irony  so  disconcerted  the  devoted  Scripture-raonger 
that  he  took  himself  off  without  another  word. 

On  the  whole,  his  visit  to  St. was  a  dead  failure ; 

yet  I  was  not  at  all  surprised  when  Lady sent  me 

h  .umber  of  the  "  Missionary  Record  "  soon  after,  to 
ge(»  an  elaborate  account  of  '*  the  devoted  labors  of  our 
beloved  brother,  Jacques  Lnrue,"  in  the  village  of  S.  B., 
(evidently  meant  for  ours,)  how  he  conversed  with  divers 
persons  of  both  sexes,  and,  he  trusted,  implanted  the 
germ  of  grace  in  their  hearts.  He  had  met  with  much 
opposition,  and  even  some  abuse,  but  rejoiced  that  ho 
was  accounted  worthy  to  suffer  for  Christ's  sake,  in 
niakiiiir  TTis  n-'imc  known  to  those  who  knew  it  not." 

I  was  strongly  tempted  to  write  rn  account  of  Larue's 

visit  for  the  benefit  of  Lady and  her  friends,  but 

on  secoiid  consideration  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
would  be  of  no  earih-y  use.  How  could  I  make  those 
see  who  would  not  choose  to  sec  ?  The  Record  was,  I 
knew.  Gospel,  and  my  annotations  would  be  worse  than 
heresy.    Still,  I  could  not  help  wishing  that  my  kind  but 


ELINOR   PRESTCK. 


277 


iivera 
the 
luch 

it  he 

[e,  ia 

Irue's 
I,  but 
hilt  it 
those 
as,  I 
I  than 
but 


much  deceived  patroness  had  been  present  in  my  school- 
room when  I  questioned  the  children  on  the  subject  of 
Larue's  summary  expulsion  from  the  "arious  houses. 
Tlie  answer  almost  invariably  was :  "  Why,  Ma'am- 
selle,  because  he  spoke  bad  of  the  Blessed  Virgin. 
Mother  says  it  would  be  a  sin  to  listen  to  him." 

"To  be  sure  it  would,"  said  another;  "wouldn't  our 
Lord  be  very  angry  with  any  one  that  spoke  ill  of  his 
Mother  ?  There's  Pierre  Larocque  gave  Jean  Brousscau 
a  good  pounding  the  other  day,  because  he  said  his 
mother  was  a  liar.  And  doesn't  our  Lord  love  his 
Mother  as  well  as  Pierre  loves  his  ?  Yes,  and  a  great 
deal  better,  too,  for  the  Blessed  Virgin  was  far  better 
than  any  other  mother." 

It  was  a  great  consolation  to  me  to  find  the  entire 
population  of  the  place  so  thoroughly  devoted  to  our 
common  patroness,  before  whose  image,  in  our  little 
quiet  church,  so  many  of  my  hours  were  happily  spent. 
The  faith  and  piety  of  the  people  endeared  my  retire- 
ment more  and  more  to  my  world-corroded  heart,  and  I 
daily  thanked  tliat  divine  Son  who  has  given  us  such  a 
Mother  to  be  our  solace  in  this  world  of  sorrow.  Lat- 
terly I  am  more  and  more  drawn  to  the  miraculous 
Presence  ever  abiding  in  the  sanctuary.  The  pale,  flick- 
ering light  of  its  solitary  lamp  is  as  the  star  of  hope  to 
my  soul,  raising  it  unconsciously  above  the  things  f  f 
this  world,  and,  with  it  in  view,  I  can  gaze  unmoved  even 
on  the  heaviest  sorrows  my  heart  has  known.  Well  for 
me  thht  the  joys  and  loves  of  earth  have  relaxed  their 
hold  upon  my  heart,  for  I  have  heard  within  the  past 
24 


l! 


'I 


i'i! 


m 


I 


! 


4      •  ■■•' 


278 


ELINOR   PRE8T0K. 


year  of  Alfred's  death.  Consumption — my  molhcr'i 
fatal  legacy — blighted  his  early  manhood,  and  before  he 
had  completed  his  twenty-fifth  year  he  was  called  from 
this  world  to  enter,  I  trust,  upon  the  joy  of  his  Lord.  A 
year  or  two  ago  this  would  have  been  a  severe  affliction, 
but  now  I  have  a  sort  of  melancholy  pleasure  in  th«» 
thought  that  another  of  our  little  band  is  gathered  into 
the  hertv<nily  fold.  It  was  Emily  who  informed  me  of 
Alfred's  happy  passage  to  eternity,  and  I  believe  I  caught 
a  portion  of  her  sweetly  tranquil  resignation.  She  told 
xne  that  our  brother  had  fallen  asleep  in  Christ,  and 
asked  why  we  should  sorrow.  lie  died  as  he  had  lived, 
for  the  last  few  years,  honored  and  esteemed  by  his 
brethren  in  religion  for  those  early  virtues  which  had  so 
soon  ripened  to  their  eternal  fulness,  and  clothed  in  the 
habit  of  an  illustrious  order  specially  devoted  to  our 
dear  Redeemer.  "  Why,  then,"  said  Emily  again, 
"  should  we  mourn  his  early  death  1  Let  us  rather 
praise  God,  my  sister,  that  he  obtained  grace  to  fight 
the  good  fight,  and  trample  on  the  vanities  of  this  world  ! 
— and  let  us  pray  that  we  too  may,  each  in  our  respec- 
tive states,  follow  his  bright  example,  that,  with  him  and 
our  loved  ones  gone  before,  we  may  enjoy  the  eternal 
blessedness  of  the  just  made  perfect."  Still,  nature  had 
her  rights,  and  my  soflened  heart  was  keenly  sensible  to 
the  feeling  of  increased  loneliness.  Often  did  I  retire  to 
a  favorite  seat  under  the  shade  of  an  old  elm  by  the 
churchyard  wall,  and  there,  alone  with  the  dead,  my 
tears  flowed  freely  for  the  beloved  brother  who  had  so 
lately  joined  that  shadowy  host.     Before  these  natural 


ELINOR   PBSSTON. 


279 


' 


and  most  refreshing  tears  were  dry  uj  xi  my  cheek  I  had 
another  trial  of  a  most  ludicrous  kind. 

It  so  happened  that  for  the  last  twelve  months,  Mr.  Le 
Comte  having  been  unable  to  procure  a  suitable  teacher 
for  his  male  school,  I  had  voluntarily  taken  charge  of 
all  the  boys  under  eight  years  old,  in  addition  to  my 
own  school.  The  amount  of  my  daily  labor  was,  of 
course,  considerably  increased,  and,  in  order  to  get 
through  with  all  the  lessons,  I  was,  moreover,  obliged 
to  keep  the  school  open  an  hour  longer.  This  I  felt 
the  more  sensibly,  as  I  have  for  some  months  past 
been  much  weakened  by  a  distressing  pain  in  my  right 
side. 

One  day  during  school-hours  I  had  a  visit  from  the 
priest,  who,  after  his  usual  kindly  chat  with  the  children, 
informed  mo  with  a  smile  that  he  had  at  length  found  a 
male  teacher  in  whose  competency  ho  had  the  utmost 
confidence.     I  said  I  was  very  glad  to  hear  it. 

*•  So  you  ought.  Mademoiselle,  since  it  will  lessen  your 
labor  considerably." 

"  Oh !  I  don't  so  much  mind  that,  sir,  as  I  do  the  want 
of  secular  instruction  on  the  part  of  your  larger  boys, 
and  the  great  difficulty  of  finding  a  really  good  teacher. 
When  does  your  gentleman  commence  his  school  1  '* 

"  Him ! — oh !  he  is  ready  any  time,  if  we  can  only 
agree  upon  the  terms ! "  he  added,  with  a  smile  that 
rather  puzzled  me ;  but  I  made  no  remark,  and  there  the 
matter  ended. 

Next  day,  just  as  I  had  dismissed  my  noisy  little 
flock,  and  was  preparing  for  a  quiet  stroll  in  the  com- 


I 


*  ii 


380 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


'i.-       .«J 


pany  of  quaint  old  GeofTrcy  Chaucer,  my  egrtss  was 
impeded  by  the  sudden  apparitic»n  of  a  Wy'ing  /ac-sim He 
of  that  venerable  individual,  as  my  imagination  loves  to 
portray  him^jld  almost  to  decrepitude,  yet  not  de- 
crepit, notwithstanding  the  "shrunk  shanks"  which 
seemed  to  bend  beneath  the  weight  of  the  body,  frail  as 
that  was — a  countenance  that  might  be  called  fresh,  when 
compared  with  the  rest  of  the  body,  and  an  eye  still  full 
of  intelligence,  keen  and  observant.  This,  with  the  ap- 
propriate finish  of  some  gray  elf-locks  falling  from  under 
a  large,  old-fashioned,  quaker-like  hat,  was  the  picture 
that  now  occupied  my  doorway.  There  was  no  going 
out  now,  I  clearly  saw,  for  the  visitor  was  no  Icf^  a  per- 
son than  the  Seigneur's  younger  brother,  Mr.  Edouard, 
as  the  villagers  Ciilled  him.  Uncle  Ned  ho  would  have 
been  in  another  country. 

**  Good-evening,  Ma*amselle,"  said  the  cheerful  and 
somewhat  polished  old  man  j  "you  were  going  out,  I 
perceive." 

*'  Oh !  that  is  of  no  consequence,  Mr.  Edouard,"  I  said, 
"your  visit  Joes  mo  honor.  Pray  be  seated."  He  was 
seated  accordingly. 

"  Good-evening,  Mother  Longpre, "  he  next  said  ;  "  al- 
ways busy,  I  see  !  " 

"Why,  yes,  sir;  there's  nothing  to  be  made  of  idle- 
ness. I'm  glad  to  see  you  down  so  far,  Mr.  Edouard. 
How's  the  rheumatism,  sir?" 

**  Pooh !  pooh !  it's  gone  long  ago — quite  gone.  I 
haven't  pain  or  ache  now,  thank  God  ! " 

•* Indeed,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  sir! — sure  enoi.gh,  you 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


281 


al- 


lie- 
rd. 


do  stand  it  well  for  a  man  of  your  age.     I  think   iff 
growing  young  you  are 


f  »♦ 


t 


ou 


For  some  reason  or  other  this  compliment  had  a  con- 
trary eflect  to  that  projected  by  the  old  woman.  Mr. 
Kdouard  took  her  up  very  shortly. 

"  Why  to  hear  yoa,  Mother  Longpre,  one  would  think 
I  ••  as  very  old  indeed  !  " 

"  Well !  you're  not  very  young,  I  know  for  certain, 
Mr.  Edouard.  But  I  meant  no  harm,  sir,  I  assure  you. 
Ma'amselle!  Vm  going  to  milk  the  cow — will  you  pleaso 
to  mind  that  bread  in  the  oven  till  I  come  back  ?  " 

The  old  gentleman  v  evidently  well  pleased  at  her 
departure,  and  fearing,  1  suppose,  her  too  speedy  re- 
turn, proceeded  at  once  to  business. 

"  Has  Monsieur  le  Cure  told  you,  mademoiselle,  that 
I  am  going  to  take  charge  of  his  school  ?  " 

This  was  really  a  surprise,  and  I  answered  very 
quickly  :  "  Why,  no,  Mr.  Edouard — he  told  me  he  had 
found  a  first-rate  teacher,  or  something  to  that  effect,  but 
he  did  not  mention  your  name.  How  can  you  possibly 
think  of  such  a  thing — with  your  attainments,  and — "  I 
was  going  to  say  "  at  your  time  of  life,"  but  T  had  prof- 
ited too  well  by  the  little  dialogue  with  Ma'am  Longpre, 
and  stopped  just  in  time.  "  Surely,"  I  said,  *'  the  salary 
is  no  object  to  you," 

"  Not  the  smallest,  my  dear  young  lady,  I  do  assure 
you.  It  is  the  prospect  of  doing  good,  of  devoting  my 
time  to  children  of  whom  I  am  so  fond,  and — "  he 
paused,  coughed  slightly,  and  looked  at  me.  Seeing  me, 
I  suppose,  perfectly  calm  and  unconscious,  the  old  fel- 


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Corporaiion 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MSSO 

(716)  S73-4S03 


■^.leT^ 


A^ 


y. 


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1 


282 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


low  went  on,  though  witli  some  embarrassment,  which, 
at  the  moment,  I  could  by  no  means  understand. 

"I  am  fond  of  society,  Mademoiselle " 

"  So  I  have  always  observed,"  said  I,  very  much  puz- 
zled by  this  remark ;  "  fortunately,  you  have  so  large  a 
circle  within  your  brother's  family  that  you  have  no 
need  to  seek  society  beyond  it." 

"Ah!  you  are  mistaken,  Mademoiselle! — I  do  not 
mean  that  society — no ! — no  ! — I  had  always  heard  the 
vicar  say  that  you  were  very  lonely  here,  so  far  away 
from  your  friends  and  country,  and — and — "  he  again 
hesitated,  and  this  time  I  felt  rather  awkward  myself — 
"  in  short,  you  always  seemed  to  relish  my  company,  (so 
I  had,  on  account  of  his  quaintly  unique  character  and 
appearance,)  so  I  thought  we  might  just  make  a  match 
of  it,  and,  living  here  nicely  together,  you  teach  the  girls 
and  I  the  boys  !  "  He  wheezed  out  a  long  breath  when 
he  had  thus  delivered  himself,  and  seemed  much  re- 
lieved. 

I  can  hardly  say  whether  I  was  most  inclined  to  laugh 
or  cry,  when  I  asked  myself  the  question,  "  Has  it  come 
to  this  with  me  1 "  I  felt  as  though  the  old  Adam  was 
urging  me  to  resent  what  pride  represented  as  an  insult ; 
but  my  sober  judgment  dictated  a  more  prudent  course, 
and  I  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh,  affecting  to  treat  the 
proposal  as  a  joke. 

"Well,  really,  Mr.  Edouard,"  said  I,  "I  never  gare 
you  credit  for  so  much  drollery  :  you  act  your  part  to 
the  very  life,  and  have  made  a  capital  joke  of  it.  I  am 
very  glad,  however,  that  neither  Ma'am  Longpro  nor  her 


Hf 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


283 


no 


daughter  happened  to  hear  you,  for  they  must  really 
have  thought  you  quite  serious,  and  that,  you  know, 
would  have  made  you  so  very  ridiculous !  But,  indeed, 
I  owe  you  many  thanks,  for  I  was  in  a  very  pensive 
mood  when  you  came  in,  and  your  droll  conceit  has 
given  me  such  a  laugh  as  will  do  me  good."  The  old 
man's  countenance  fell,  and  he  looked  quite  abashed. 

"  But,  mademoiselle,"  he  stammered  out,  "  you  are 
again  mistaken.  I  don't  see  anything  so  very  ridicu- 
lous  " 

Luckily  I  just  then  heard  old  Marie's  foot  on  the  path 
without,  and  I  eagerly  interrupted  him.  "  For  pity's 
sake,  not  a  word  more,  sir — I  would  not  on  any  account 
that  such  an  absurd  idea  should  get  abroad,  even  in  jest. 
Be  composed,  I  beg  of  you,  for  here  comes  Mother 
Longpre,  who  has  got  very  sharp  eyes  of  her  own." 

During  the  remainder  of  the  visit,  I  managed  so  that 
Marie  never  left  the  room,  seeing  which,  and  inferring 
from  my  manner  that  he  had  not  the  ghost  of  a  chance, 
the  fanciful  old  dotard  soon  removed  himself  from  my 
presence,  to  my  no  small  relief;  for  as  long  as  he  stayed 
[  felt  myself  under  a  very  painful  restraint. 


■VJ 


ihe 


-P'' 


284 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


CHAPTER  X, 


N  the  following  day,  Mr.  Le  Comte  came 
to  tell  me  that  he  had  lost  his  male  teacher. 
"  I  need  not  tell  you  how  or  why,  Miss 
Preston ! "  said  he,  with  his  calm  smile, 
"  at  least  I  think  so.  But  how  to  account 
for  the  original  plan  on  Ae  part  of  our 
would-be  employe — that  is  the  point!" 

f"/can  easily  account  for  it,  sir,"  said  I, 
"  by  means  of  an  old  proverb  in  common 
circulation  among   us  at  home — *an  old 
fool's  the  worst  of  any.'  " 
**  Good ! "  said  the  priest,  "  very   good,   indeed !    I 
should  be  sorry,  however,  to  have  you  say  so  before 
our  poor  old  friend,  for  he  is  really  a  good  man — simple 
as  a  child,  and  guileless,  too." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  sir,"  I  replied,  "  but  I  think 
at  his  time  of  life  he  ought  to  mind  his  prayers  and  be- 
gin to  wean  himself  from  the  world,  instead  of  indulging 
in  idle  vagaries." 

**  You  are  right,  my  child,  quite  right,"  said  the  good 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


285 


I 

>re 
)la 


vicar,  with  a  sudden  change  of  manner,  fixing  his  eyes 
thoughtfully  on  the  blue  water  before  us ;  "  when  our  life 
mayy  at  any  moment,  and  must^  in  a  few  short  years, 
merge  in  the  shoreless  gulf  of  eternity,  why  should  we, 
any  of  us,  as  you  say,  indulge  in  idle  vagaries  ?  Vanity 
of  vanities,  and  all  is  vanity  !  " 

One  Sunday,  about  a  month  after,  when  the  priest 
commenced  publishing  the  bans,  the  first  on  the  list  was : 
"  between  Edouard  Garneau,  son  of  deceased  Rene  Gar- 
neau,  and  deceased  Angele  Thessier,  of  this  parish,  on 
the  one  part,  and  Therese  Dumont,  daughter  of  Michel 

Jobin  and  Rose  Carron,  of  the  parish  of  St. on  the 

other." 

So  great  a  sensation  did  this  han  produce  among  the 
congregation,  that  I  think  there  was  little  attention  paid 
to  the  others.  Mr.  Edouard  was  decidedly  one  of  the 
oldest  men  in  the  parish,  and  might  reasonably  be  the 
grandfather  of  Therese  Dumont,  who  was  hardly  out  of 
her  teens,  and,  .noreover,  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  the 
two  parishes.  For  my  part,  I  was  amused  but  not  sur- 
prised. I  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  self-conceited  old 
bachelor  being  wofully  mortified  by  the  manner  of  my 
refusal  as  well  as  the  refusal  itself,  and  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  let  me  see  that  he  could  get  a  wife  any  day 
both  younger  and  prettier  than  I.  As  for  the  girl  her- 
self, it  was  a  great  uprise  for  her,  she  being  only  the 
daughter  of  a  very  small  farmor,  who  found  it  hard 
enough  to  make  all  ends  meet,  being  burdened  with  a 
young  and  numerous  family.  So,  of  course,  Therese 
and  her  parents  were  delighted  with  the  prospect  of  her 


286 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


marrying  into  the  Garneau  family,  and  it  probably 
never  once  occurred  to  the  giddy  and  light-hearted  girl 
that  she  was  making  a  sacrifice.  The  gain,  she  thought, 
was  all  hers,  the  condescension  old  Edouard's.  Happy- 
state  of  insensibility !  may  it  continue  through  life — it 
may,  in  such  a  disposition  as  that  of  Therese. 

The  secret  of  Mr.  Edouard's  matrimonial  speculations 
was  only  known,  however,  to  the  priest  and  myself.  To 
the  rest  of  the  congregation  it  was  the  wonder  of  the  day, 
and,  to  say  the  truth,  Therese's  singular  good  fortune  waa 
much  more  talked  of  than  even  the  astonishing  disparity 
of  years.  The  burden  of  the  old  song  was  quite  lost 
sight  of,  if  it  were  ever  heard  of  in  that  locality,  and 
people  seemed  to  think  that  in  defiance  of  its  axiom : 
"  May  and  December  can  "  sometimes  "  agree." 

Mr.  Le  Comte  told  me  next  time  1  saw  him  that  he 
had  earnestly  remonstrated  with  the  old  man  on  his 
strange  project,  but  all  to  no  purpose — married  he  would 
and  should  be.  He  was  his  own  master,  he  hoped,  and 
he  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  have  a  wife  as  well 
as  anybody  else. 

On  the  Sunday  following  the  marriage,  just  as  I  was 
leaving  my  own  door,  prayer-book  in  hand,  going  to 
Grand  Mass,  who  should  rattle  past  me  in  a  caleche  but 
Mr.  Edouard  and  his  bride,  the  latter  in  the  full  glory 
of  her  bridal  costume,  white  veil,  white  ribbons,  and 
some  very  whitish  shawl.  I  affected  not  to  notice  who 
were  passing,  but  the  spruce  old  bridegroom  was  deter- 
mined that  I  should  notice  them. 

"Good-day,  ma'amselle,  g*od-day,"  said  he,  with  a 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


287 


very  inimated  air,  a  very  patronizing  bow,  and  quite  an 
exulting  smile.  1  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing  in 
his  face ;  but  the  pretty  bride  turned  her  face  full  on  me, 
and  it  was  so  bright,  so  full  of  the  childish  vanity  attend- 
ing on  her  new  position,  that  I  could  not  bear  to  laugh 
at  her  old  man,  lest  it  might  in  any  degree  lessen  her 
girlish  triumph.  So  I  smiled  and  bowed  and  returned 
the  "  good-day,"  with  the  easiest  possible  air  of  good- 
humor,  and  on  the  caleche  rolled  to  astonish  others  of 
the  natives.  I  rather  think,  however,  that  tl>e  old  gen- 
tleman's mortification  was  not  small  on  finding  me  take 
the  matter  so  coolly,  I  suppose  he  thought  I  should 
have  been  grievously  piqued — poor,  simple  old  man ! 

Somehow  the  affair  reminded  me,  however,  of  my 
poor  Aunt  Kate  and  the  practical  joke  played  upon  her 
and  "honest  Tom,"  by  the  most  illustrious  of  wags — so 
many  years  before.  It  was  the  signal  for  a  host  of  half- 
buried  recollections  to  start  into  sudden  life. 

"  Awake  but  one,  and  lo !  what  myriads  rise!  " 

As  I  took  my  solitary  walk  that  evening  by  the  river's 
bank,  I  involuntarily  began  to  review  the  leading  events 
of  my  past  life.  They  were  all  before  me  "  in  varied 
sheen  bedight,"  and  as  I  retraced  the  several  periods 
when  so  many  of  my  friends  and  acquaintances  had  dis- 
appeared from  my  view  in  "  the  waves  of  time,"  leaving 
me  a  stranger  and  alone  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  earth, 
I  could  almost  fancy  that  the  past  was  but  a  wild, 
changeful  dream.  "  No,  Elinor  Preston !  "  said  I,  with- 
in myself,  "  those  pictures  from  which  you  at  times  lift 


288 


ELINOR    PRESTON, 


\ 


the  veil  for  your  private  contemplation,  they  are  not— 
^oannot  be  real;  you  never  had  a  family  circle — you 
never  lived  in  a  world  of  mirth  and  gayety — the  haunts 
of  fashion  you  never  knew — the  scenes  of  old  renown 
and  the  romantic  beauties  of  distant  lands  you  must 
have  seen  but  in  dreams — and  the  living,  loving  hearts 
w^ho  made  even  joy  more  dear — they,  too,  were  crea- 
tures of  the  imagination.  There's  no  use  keeping  up 
the  delusion  longer — you  never  had  an  Aunt  Kate.  Yuu 
must  have  had  a  father  and  mother — that's  plain — but, 
bless  you !  they  weren't  what  you  fancy  them  at  this 
distance  of  time.  George,  and  Alfred,  and  Carry,  and 
even  Emily,  are  all  visionary  personages,  just  as  unreal 
to  you  as  the  stout  old  Baron  of '41,  of  whom  your 
childhood  heard  so  much.  Even  Shaugh,  staunch  and 
sturdy,  and  humorous  as  you  represent  him  to  yourself, 
was  but  a  puppet  like  the  rest,  strutting  his  little  hour 
on  the  dreamy  stage  of  your  past  life."  Amused  at  this 
strange  freak  of  fancy,  I  yet  asked  myself,  "Is  there  not 
sound  philosophy  in  it  after  all — what  is  the  past  but  a 
dream  to  any  of  us  ?  "  The  thought  was  mournful  but 
not  painful.  Mechanically  I  had  taken  the  path  that  led 
to  the  churchyard,  and,  opening  the  little  gate,  I  walked 
in,  murmuring  to  myself  those  words  of  Scott : 


! 


"  Time  rolls  his  ceaseless  course !  the  face  of  yore 
Who  danced  our  infancy  upon  their  knee, 
And  told  our  marvelling  boyhood  legends  hoar 
Of  their  strange  ventures,  happ'd  by  land  or  sea, 
How  are  they  blotted  from  the  things  that  be  t 


»> 


KLIKOE  FRS8T0N. 


289 


^*  Here  at  least  and  at  last  is  reality ! "  I  thought,  as  I 
looked  around  at  the  little  grassy  hillocks  where 

**  Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep/' 

"  If  life  be  as  the  poet  tells  us  *  all  but  a  dream  at  the 
best,'  here  it  is  that  the  dream  ends,  and  how  little  should 
I,  for  one,  care  how  soon  I  pass  into  the  world  of  spirits, 
where  the  kindly  hearts  that  alone  bound  me  to  this  vale 
of  tears  almost  all  await  me.  1  am  calm  and  tranquil 
now,  but  not  happy ;— oh,  no !  for  the  void  that  we  all 
feel  within  us — the  craving  for  some  future  good — is  in 
me  painfully  sensible.  I  have  ceased  to  dwell  upon  the 
past,  and  begin  to  live  in  the  future.  I  wonder  how 
Emily  feels,  or  does  she  in  any  degree  share  my  feel- 
ings. Oh !  if  I  only  had  her  here,  I  think  I  could  be 
happy — ^but  this  utter  isolation  is  overwhelming  to  my 
heart,  and  makes  me  long  for  the  world  beyond  the 
grave  where  I  may  humbly  hope  to  enjoy  for  ever  the 
glorious  vision  of  Grod  and  His  saints.  May  I  find  among 
them  all  I  have  lost ! " 

Just  then  I  heard  the  shrill  voice  of  Mother  Longpr6 
calling  me  at  the  gate,  which  she  held  . ^fm.  " There's 
another  reality,"  said  I  to  myself;  "  no  dream  could  pro- 
duce that ! "  I  went  to^  her  immediately,  and  received  a 
severe  reprimand  for  sitting  out  under  the  dew. 

"  It's  a  nice  place  for  you,  too,"  said  she,  "  moping 
there  in  the  graveyard,  and  it  near  dark.  If  you  got  a 
good  fright  once  for  all  there  it  would  serve  you,  I  think. 
Don't  you  know  very  well  that  the  ghosts  must  be  in  it 

as  thick  as  the  grass  1  ** 
'26 


200 


ELINOR   PRESTOIT. 


"  I  am  not  afraid  of  them,  Marie !  1  never  injured 
any  of  them,  and  why  should  they  injure  ',ne  ?  " 

'*  Well !  I  don't  say  they  would  injure  you,  ma'am- 
selle,  for,  with  God's  help,  they  all  got  Christian  burial, 
and  died  at  peace  with  the  world ;  but  what  of  that— 
the  very  sight  of  a  spirit  would  be  enough  to  kill  one." 

"  I  don't  know  that,  Marie ! "  I  said  with  a  smile ;  "  I 
think  there  are  some  spirits  in  the  other  world  that  I 
should  be  very  glad  to  see.  And,  besides,  I  don't  know 
how  soon  I  may  be  a  ghost  myself.  If  I  were,  would 
you  be  afraid  of  me  ?  "  I  smiled,  but  not  so  Mother 
Longpre.  She  moved  instinctively  a  step  or  two  fur- 
ther away,  and  as  I  eyed  her  askance  I  could  see  even 
by  the  dim  twilight  that  her  old  wrinkled  face  changed 
color. 

"  Afraid  of  you ! "  she  repeated ;  "  well !  I  can't  say 
— I  don't  know  but  I  might — but  for  God's  sake,  don't 
be  jesting  about  such  things." 

**  I  am  not  jesting,  Marie — ^I  really  intend  to  die 
some  day  I " 

"  Well !  mind,  if  you  do  walk  about  when  you're 
dead,  you're  not  to  appear  to  me.  Now  sure  you  won't, 
ma'amselle  1  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  think  you  are  in  a 
fair  way  for  your  long  journey,  unless  you  give  up  this 
strange  habit  of  moping  about  all  alone  in  the  evenings. 
I  declare,  you  look  for  all  the  world  like  a  ghost  at  this 
present  moment !  "  I  did,  too,  for  the  love  of  f\in  flash- 
ing up  within  me  with  a  fitful  glare,  I  lengthened  my 
face  to  the  verj  utmost,  and  slowly  turned  my  eyes  to- 
wards her,  then  fixed  them  on  her  face  with  a  most  ca» 


\ 


ELINOR    PRESTON. 


291 


»> 


die 

m're 
on't, 
in  a 
this 
ngs. 
this 
ash- 
my 
to- 
ca* 


daverous  stare.  The  effect  was  magical.  OKI  Marie 
took  to  her  heels,  muttering  "  Christ  save  us  !  "  a.itl  ran 
as  fast  as  her  trembling  limbs  could  carry  her  to  the 
house,  where  I  found  Laure  funning  her  with  a  newspaper 
when  I  went  in.  I  had  laughed  heartily  at  the  comical 
result  of  my  trick — it  was  but  a  gesture  aflor  all — and  I 
was  still  laughing  when  I  got  in  ;  but  the  old  woman  was 
in  no  laughing  humor,  and  as  soon  as  she  could  get 
breath  to  speak,  she  cried  out : 

"  Never  do  the  like  of  that  again,  miss ! — don't  now — 
for  mocking's  catching! — it's  fine  fun  for  the  like  of  you 
to  frighten  old  people,  and  play  ghost,  and  all  that,  but 
I  tell  you  again,  death  is  not  to  be  played  with !  Mind 
that  now ! " 

"Why,  Marie,"  I  expostulated,  "how  did  /  play 
ghost? — I  only  looked  at  you,  and  off  you  scampered 
as  though  there  was  a  whole  troop  of  them  after  you !  I 
wish  you  had  seen  her,  Laure  !  "  The  daughter  laughed, 
but  the  mother  was  no  way  disposed  for  mirth. 

"  Looked  at  me,  indeed  !  "  she  cried,  "  but  what  sort 
of  a  look  was  it  1  Nobody  in  the  world  could  tell  you 
from  a  real  spirit — the  Lord  save  us!  " 

"  You  must  know,  ma*amselle,"  said  Laure,  very  grave- 
ly, "  that  my  poor  mother  saw  a  real  ghost  a  little  before 
we  came  to  you," 

"  Is  it  possible,  Laure, — what  kind  of  a  ghost  was  it  ?  " 

"She'll  tell  you  herself,  ma'amselle,"  said  Laure, 
drawing  back  behind  her  mother's  chair  to  indulge  in  a 
low  titter,  throwing  me  a  significant  glance  at  the  same 
time. 


292 


BLINOR   PRB8T0H. 


"  Ah !  you  villain,"  said  the  mother,  laughing  herself 
at  the  recollection ;  **  that  was  the  funny  ghost.  It  was 
a  fine  summer  night,  ma^amselle,  that  it  took  on  to 
frighten  me,  and  a  fearful  looking  thing  it  was,  with  its 
winding-sheet  wrapped  about  it,  and  everything  as  deathly 
as  could  be ;  but  after  it  had  the  life  and  soul  frightened 
in  me,  walking  up  and  down  before  the  door,  and  round 
the  end  of  the  house,  didn't  I  catch  my  lady  here  giving 
it  a  drink  of  water  through  the  back  window,  and  it 
wiping  its  face  as  natural  as  life  with  a  pocket-handker- 
chief, however  it  got  such  a  thing  in  the  grave !  " 

"  Now,  mother,  what  a  shame  for  you  to  talk  so,"  and 
Laure  bent  her  now  blushing  face  over  a  pot  that  was 
boiling  on  the  stove ;  "  what  can  ma'amselle  think  ?  " 

"  She  may  think  what  she  likes,"  said  the  old  woman, 
winking  at  me  ;  **  it's  a  chance  if  she  doesn't  hear  that 
very  ghost  called  to  be  married  siome  of  these  fine  Sun- 
days to  as  lively  a  girl  as  any  in  the  parish.  I  hope 
Tou'll  not  dip  your  head  in  that  boiler,  mignonnel — 
)r  are  you  looking  in  it  for  something  you've  lost  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  see  if  the  beets  are  done,  mother ;  I  think 
they  are.  Just  you  come  here  and  take  them  up,  till  I 
run  down  to  Belair's  for  some  vinegar." 

"  Take  care  of  that  ghost,  Laure !  "  I  whispered,  as  the 
girl  passed  me;  "I  suppose  it's  Edmond ! " 

"You  can  guess  well,  ma'amselle  ! "  was  the  laughing 
answer  in  the  same  tone,  and  after  a  glance  at  her  pretty 
dark  face  in  the  little  hanging  mirror,  she  tripped  lightly 
away,  humming  "  La  Claire  Fontaine^ 

My  heart  was  lighter  that  evening  than  I  had  felt  it 


I 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


293 


link 
ill  1 

the 

ling 
Jtty 
itly 

it 


for  months  long,  and  as  I  sat  at  my  work  adiT  tea  I 
caught  myself  singing  "  The  Young  May  Mdou/'  glancing 
ever  and  anon  at  the  fair  planet  then  "  beaming  "  un  mo 
through  the  opposite  window.  It  was  the  gleam  of  sun- 
shine breaking  through  the  darkness  of  a  wintry  day, 
followed  closely  by  the  thunder  crash  and  the  drifting 
storm. 

Next  day  Mr.  Le  Comte  brought  me  a  letter  which 
he  had  found  at  the  post-office  for  me.  It  was  from  Ire- 
land— had  the  Dublin  postmark,  and  the  ominous  black 
seal.  It  was  from  the  Superior  of  Cabra  Convent,  an- 
nouncing Emily's  death.  The  blow  was,  at  first,  over- 
whelming, and  covering  my  face  with  my  hands,  I  sank 
back  in  my  chair  in  wordless  and  tearless  an<^uisli.  Af- 
ter waiting  a  few  moments,  the  good  priest  btgan  to 
console  me,  but  to  his  great  surprise  I  looked  at  him 
with  a  ghastly  smile,  and  told  him  he  was  very  kind  but 
that  I  needed  no  consolation. 

"I  astonish  you,  father,  but  it  is  true — I  am  glad  noto 
— now  that  the  pang  is  passed.  The  earthly  tie  is  broken, 
and  my  spirit  is  free  to  soar  upwards  to  the  regions  of 
eternal  day.  Oh  yes!  I  am  glad — glad  that  Emily,  too, 
is  gone  before  me  !  " 

The  priest  was  evidently  at  a  loss  to  understand  me ; 
and  seeing  me  so  composed,  he  soon  took  his  leave, 
whereupon  I  hastened  to  the  church,  and,  gliding  into 
my  favorite  nook,  poured  forth  my  soul  in  prayer.  Oh ! 
the  luxury  of  finding  one's  self  alone  at  such  a  moment 
in  the  hushed  silence  of  God's  holy  house,  with  only 
Him,  our  Father,  Brother,  Friend  for  a  witness,  sure  of 


I 


294 


BLIKOR   PRESTON. 


finding  in  that  divine  Heart  sympathy  and  consola 
tion . 

Another  year  has  past  away  since  she  vanished  from 
the  stiige  of  life — 

^  "  The  last  o'  that  bright  band." 

I  have  applied  myself  since  then  to  win  the  love  of  the 
little  flock  who  are  my  daily  companions ;  and  I  think  I 
have  succeeded.  I  feel  that  my  "  presence  "  is,  to  them, 
*'  a  blessing,"  and  that  I  have  power  to  make  them  happy. 
In  my  walks  around  the  village  they  follow  or  meet 
me  with  little  offerings  of  wild  flowers,  or  some  such 
simple  token — their  fathers  and  mothers  have  always  a 
pleasant  smile,  a  nod,  or  a  curtsey  for  ma^amselle.  Even 
the  very  dogs  have  learned  to  love  me ;  they  never  bark 
at  me  now,  as  I  pass,  but  wag  their  tails  and  fawn  on 
me,  and  even  their  affection  is  not  to  be  despised.  It  is, 
at  least,  sincere.  True,  they  have  none  of  them  shared 
my  fortunes — there  is  no  "  Old  Dog  Tray  "  among  them 
— -there  may  be  for  others,  but  not  for  me — yet  still  I 
value  the  mute  caresses  of  the  faithful  animals  who  are 
so  susceptible  of  kindness,  so  grateful,  and  so  honest. 

I  have  reached  the  grand  climacteric  of  woman's  life 
— ^nay,  I  have  passed  it  by  a  year  or  two,  and  the  little 
hanging  mirror  begins  to  warn  me  that 

"  Youth  and  bloom  are  over." 

The  features  are  still  youthful,  but  the  buoyancy  of  spirit 
that  animated  them  is  fled  for  ever.  I  seldom  smile 
now-a-days,  and  yet  I  am  aot  sad — it  is  that  the  8un« 


ELINOR   PRESTON. 


296 


I 

Ire 


it 


shine  of  my  heart  is  utterly  faded,  never  again  to  beam 
in  this  world. 

Old  Marie  peevishly  declares  that  I  do  not  eat  enough 
to  keep  the  life  in  me,  and  good  Ma'amselle  Le  Comte 
has  been  making  me  sundry  decoctions  of  herbs.  The 
priest  shakes  his  head,  and  tells  me  very  seriously  that 
I  ought  to  have  medical  advice,  but  they  are  all  mis- 
taken— I  feel  neither  pain  nor  ache — what  need  have  I 
then  of  a  doctor  1  If  it  be  true  that  my  life  be  ebbing 
fast  away,  why,  what  of  it  ?  May  I  not  console  myself 
with  the  exquisite  words  of  the  old  Scottish  ballad — 
since  I  have  neither  Jean  nor  Jock  to  exhort  to  patience 
and  resignation  1 

*'  I'm  wearin*  awa,  Jean, 
^  Like  snaw-wreatbs  in  thaw,  Jean, 

I'm  wearin'  awa 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

"  There's  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean, 
There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean, 
\        The  day  is  aye  fair 

r  the  land  o' the  leaL" 

Suppose  I  were  to  substitue  Nell  for  Jean,  it  would  just 
be  the  echo  of  my  own  heart — thanks,  thanks,  "  Harp 
of  the  North  ! "  for  this  sweetly  tender  lay,  "  flung  down 
the  fitful  breeze "  from  the  hand  of  some  nameless 
"  child  of  song "  for  the  solace  of  many  a  weary  heart 
throughout  all  coming  time. 

A  few  more  months  have  glided  on,  and  I  believe  1 
am  nearing  that  final  bourne  whence  travellers  are  said 
never  to  return.  I  have  written  farewell  letters — ^not 
sad  ones,  however — to  Maria  Dillon,  and  to  my  kind 


ELINOR   PBESTOir. 


who  is  now  in  Scotland.     I  have 


296 

friend  Lady  — 
pointed  out  to  Mr.  Le  Comte  the  spot  where  my  grave 
is  to  be  made,  and  I  have  told  him  to  give  my  little  ef- 
fects to  Mother  Longpre,  whose  daughter  married  the 
ghost^  as  the  old  woman  still  calls  him,  some  five  or  six 
months  ago.  The  few  valuables  which  I  yet  retain  our 
worthy  pastor  is  to  sell  for  the  benefit  of  my  soul. 

Reader,  I  will  now  bid  you  farewell.  I  know  not 
whether  I  have  been  able  to  interest  you  in  my  wayward 
fortunes,  yet  somehow  I  feel  as  though  we  were  old  ac- 
quaintances, and  I  should  like  to  have  lefl  a  favorable 
impression  on  your  mind  now  that  we  are  about  to  part 
company.  You  will  not,  I  trust,  blame  me,  because  my 
story  is  rather  a  sad  one — the  fault,  be  assured,  is  not 
mine ;  none  of  us  would  have  our  lives  sombre  or  cheer, 
less  if  we  could  possibly  help  it,  and  as  for  me,  my  na- 
ture was  once  only  too  sanguine,  too  hopeful — even  to 
the  last,  there  was  at  bottom,  a  thick  stratum  (as  geolo- 
gists would  say)  of  cheerfulnesss — ^I  had  almost  said, 
gayety.  But  circumstances  "nipped"  my  humor  "i' 
the  bud  " — ^blighted  the  fair  promise  of  earlier  years,  and 
wrapped  my  whole  being  in  mist  and  cloud.  Farewell, 
reader,  a  long  farewell ! 


BUVOR  PRB8T0V. 


297 


:*.. 


CONCLUSION. 


«i» 


From  the  worthy  pastor,  I  had  an  account  of  Miss 
Preston's  happy  death — ^how  the  clouds  of  which  she 
spoke  had  all  vanished  in  the  final  hour,  and  given  place 
to  the  brightness  of  faith  and  hope — how  the  young 
maidens  of  the  village,  clad  in  white,  followed  their  be- 
loved teacher  to  the  grave  in  long  procession,  chanting 
the  beautiful  Litany  of  Loretto— how  the  coffin  was 
borne  by  four  young  men  chosen  by  lot  from  among  the 
many  who  desired  the  honor — ^how  the  wreath  of  white 
roses  was  laid  on  the  coffin,  emblematic  of  the  spotless 
purity  of  the  early  dead,  and  how,  for  many  days  after 
the  funeral,  fresh  flowers  were  strewed  on  her  grave  by 
the  children  whom  in  life  she  loved  so  well. 

Such  was  the  record  of  Miss  Preston's  life  traced  by 
her  own  hand ;  and  I  know  not  how  it  may  be  with  others, 
but  for  me  it  had  a  strange  charm.  The  varied  scenes 
amid  which  her  life  flowed  on — the  striking  contrasts  in 
which  it  abounded — the  mystery  which  at  first  overhung 
the  pages,  clearing  gradually  away  before  my  eyes  as  I 
read,  until  at  length  I  felt  as  though  I  had  really  known 
the  Minor  Preston,  whose  "  simple  story  "  I  had  been 
perusing.     Whether  you  will  thank  me  for  making  you 


298 


XLINOR  PRXBTOir. 


acquainted  with  her  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell,  but,  in  any 
case,  you  will  not  say  the  contrary,  whatever  you  may 
think — for  I  know  readers  in  general  are  very  polite  and 
very  courteous — proverbially  so,  indeed — and  my  he- 
roine^s  misfortunes,  if  nothing  else,  entitle  her  to  your 
respect. 

In  conclusion,  it  may  be  well  to  mention  that  old 
Mother  Longpre  has  actually  been  on  the  look-out  ever 
since  Miss  Preston's  death.  She  is  now  engaged  super- 
intending the  primary  education  of  a  chubby  little  grand- 
child, who,  under  her  experienced  tuition,  will  soon  be 
able  to  use  his  legs.  She  has  a  wholesome  horror  of 
being  out  after  nightfall,  and  thinks  "  poor  dear  ma'am- 
selle  "  may  probably  take  an  occasional  airing  in  the  vi- 
cinity of  her  present  dwelling.  Still  she  derives  a  sort 
of  faint  security  from  her  promise  not  to  appear  to  her : 
only  for  that,  she  says,  God  knows  how  it  would  be, 
for  the  poor  young  lady  had  such  odd  ways  with  her  at 
times,  that  she  must  have  had  something  on  her  mind 
and  it  wouldn't  be  much  wonder  if  she  came  wandering 
b8€k  in  search  of  relief. 

This  was  old  Marie's  private  opinion,  but  in  public 
she  agreed  with  all  the  neighbors  that  if  ma'amselle 
wasn't  in  heaven  it  was  a  pity  of  those  she  left  behind— 
a  form  of  encomium  common,  I  believe,  to  all  Catholio 
populations,  when  the  recent  dead  are  in  question. 


>. 


■•I 


THI  XVD. 


■^ 


% 


J?. 


